


Love Like Poetry

by YaellNovella



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7712536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YaellNovella/pseuds/YaellNovella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both teachers of English literature, Bard and Thranduil find that they have a common ground for conversation. While at first they find themselves talking to each other like hunter and prey, constantly circling one another in search of an opening, their words become poetry and their conversations a dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When We Two Parted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicalmagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalmagic/gifts).



> The chapter titles always refer to a classic poem from famous English poets, which you can find in its entirety at the end of each chapter.

“We have no need for another teacher.” The man’s voice was raspy as he spoke, but in a certain way it was gentle and rather warm, showing a lingering care for the work he was doing. “I’m sorry”, he right away apologized “but I cannot offer you a job right now. However, your CV looks impressive, and as soon as we get an opening, I’ll ring you up.”

Bard wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment or leave very disappointed. Perhaps a little bit of both was in order. “Thank you for time either way”, he said with a polite smile. “While I do not wish for any of your current staff to retire or happen upon an accident, I sure hope to hear from you soon.” He couldn’t really think of a better way to end a conversation like this, but he really needed that job.

And it wasn’t like it wasn’t visible in the way he dressed. He wore a shabby coat, lined with old fur that already lost its volume and flair. It had once been a good coat, solid and strong, but the weather had beaten it down into what it was now. He couldn’t afford looking better for interviews, yet the chance of getting a job shrunk every time a chunk of fur fell from his coat and his appearance got worse.

Bard dug his hands deep in his pockets, poking his index finger through the familiar hole that had cost him almost five pounds in change. Yet a muffled talking got to his attention. Classes were in session, and nearby someone was teaching English. Literature, it seemed, judging by the lengthy amount of talking the teacher was doing. Probably reading a fragment out loud. He walked closer to the door, his interest piqued as he wanted to know which part of literature they were talking about.

“-thy name spoken, And share in its shame”, the voice nearly sang. Bard recognized the poem immediately: Byron’s ‘When we Two parted’. He wasn’t much a fan of the man, but his poetry sure could sometimes surprise. The teacher continued with the following verse, and Bard had to lean closer to the door to understand him better. “They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o’er me- Why wert thou so dear?” The wood really blocked the sound so much it was terribly frustrated.

 

* * *

 

A sudden knock sounded, and Thranduil looked up from the book, interrupted in his poem. The entire class had been staring at him, bemused by his voice. It largely consisted of girls that had primarily chosen an English literature class for their interest in the teacher more than their interest in literature. But the knock had disrupted the entire atmosphere that hung around the room.

“Do come in”, Thranduil said, putting the bookmark between the papers and placing it on his desk. He slipped his glasses down and hung them on the collar of his tight white shirt, briefly tugging his waistcoat down as he moved to the door in order to open it. He wondered who was interrupting class when it was in session, and until he’d pushed down the doorknob and opened, he had not expected a man like Bard to sheepishly stare at him from the door opening.

None of the girls could see who it was, for Bard remained outside, out of sight, and Thranduil just stood there wondering who that shabby man was. Everything he wore, from top to bottom, was worn down. He’d seen men sleeping below bridges that were dressed better than this one, and he was terribly confused as to what he was doing there. “How can I help you?” Thranduil wondered out loud, as soon as he’d more or less recovered from the shock of seeing a hobo in a rather pristine school.

 

* * *

 

He’d stumbled over and banged his head against the door moments ago, interrupting a class of English. Great. But even more great was the teacher opening the door. His long blond hair fell over his shoulders like a silken veil shrouded a bride’s shoulders. His eyes made his face expressive, even though little emotion rested on any other one of his features. It was the hair that drew the attention, but the eyes that made it stay.

“I eh… I’m sorry”, Bard muttered, fumbling nervously. He felt terribly awkward being confronted like that, and he knew the hoard of girls in the classroom were trying to get to see him. All those eyes focused on him made him feel like an animal in the zoo, and terribly conscious of what he was wearing, the way he looked. But most of all it was those cool blue eyes that stared him down. That man was dressed so meticulously neat in an outfit put together so meticulously, Bard just felt like he’d rolled through some mud and then decided to go to a job interview.

The school wasn’t that important or posh or famous. Bard wouldn’t have thought about going there otherwise. It was an old school, and in fact it wasn’t doing so well financially. So theoretically, he would’ve fit right in. Theoretically being the key word there. “I overheard someone teaching English here, and as an English teacher myself, I… couldn’t help but get my interest piqued”, Bard admitted.

“An English teacher?” the blond one repeated, a little bit in disbelief, and that was something Bard could pick up on right away. He wanted to reply to that, explaining where he’d gotten his degree, but it seemed like the teacher didn’t really doubt him, despite his initial surprise. “Why not join the class, then? We still have a good fifteen minutes more to go. We were just analysing…”

“When we Two parted by Lord George Byron”, Bard finished the sentence. The teacher cocked his head a little in reply, and the faintest hint of a smile came to his otherwise serene and calm face. He stepped aside, gesturing Bard to come in. He couldn’t refuse now, could he? But he feared the many pairs of eyes that would focus on him. And yes, as soon as he came into vision, the girls started whispering to one another.

As he was walked towards a free seat in the back, Bard could hear some of the girls mention how attractive he was, while on the other side of the room a few where making comments about his ‘odd’, ‘old’ and ‘ugly’ coat. In either case giggling sounded all over the room.

 

* * *

 

“Attention now, please”, Thranduil called out as he walked once more to the front. He’d picked up on the many whispers passing through his room, and while he agreed with one side, he agreed with the other side as well. Not that he aimed to comment on that, though. He still had a poetic analysis to finish with his students, though he feared their attention was now a little bit more divided than before. Oddly enough he didn’t mind. It would keep their nosy eyes off him for a bit.

Surely the class ended soon, and as the girls packed their stuff to rush to their next subject, Thranduil could see Bard coming his way. “That was an amazing analysis”, Bard mentioned, scratching the back of his head. “I liked your interpretation of…” But Thranduil didn’t seem to be even remotely interested in the compliments Bard wished to pay him, nor the gratitude he wanted to express for being allowed to attend.

“Do you have a moment right now, or do you have to be somewhere soon?” Thranduil wanted to know, blatantly interrupting Bard’s sentence. “If you have the time, I would gladly treat you to a coffee. There’s a marvellous little shop down the road. It’s cosy inside and they have the best coffee I’ve ever had. We could talk more poetic analyses over there.”

“Eh… sure. I mean, I don’t have to go anywhere, no”, Bard said, confused and honestly baffled to being asked in such a direct way by the man. Was he interested in someone as sloppy as him? That almost couldn’t be true. But the more he observed Thranduil, the surer he became. It wasn’t because Thranduil was interested in him that he’d asked him for coffee. They could’ve talked a little bit more here and be done with it. No, Thranduil wanted something more specific of him.

“Great. I’ll just pack my stuff then”, Thranduil said as he was shoving everything into his leather bag. All seemed to have its own designated spot, put in a specific place so nothing would get messed up and he’d find everything he needed right away. With a soft ‘tick’, Thranduil closed the case of his glasses and slipped it away. “Let’s walk there”, Thranduil suggested. “I would offer you a ride, but I didn’t come by car myself.”

That surprised Bard, for this man didn’t exactly look like he liked going by public transport, by bike or on foot for that matter. “Sure”, Bard agreed. He’d come by bike himself, but he figured he could walk next to it, or just pick it up afterwards. He was observing the other man as Thranduil packed everything. There was a loose thread on the seam of his shoulder, Bard noticed. It was light grey in colour, so it wasn’t very obvious as it blended in easily with the long, blond locks that slipped smoothly over the soft piece of fabric, but it was there still.

Bard wondered if he should make notice of it, but right when he wanted to address it, he realized the same was true for the last button on his waistcoat. And one of the buttons from the cuffs of his shirt was missing as well. This teacher was probably aware of the things that were wrong with his clothes, Bard realized, and despite that, he had chosen not to fix his meticulously put together attire.

Thranduil was lifting his bag when he realized that Bard’s eyes were scanning him, taking into account every little detail about him. He hung his coat over his arm, a sudden movement that forced the other to snap out of his thoughts. “Let’s get going then, shall we?” Thranduil kindly said, forcing a thin smile on his face that made Bard wonder if it was sincere at all. He quickly nodded and turned to open the door, holding it as Thranduil passed him by. A simple, short nod alerted Bard of the ‘thank you’ that the other wished to convey.

 

* * *

 

As they walked down the corridors, Bard started realizing how different their ways of walking were. Both were confident men, and in their strut, this was visible. While Bard took large steps, his body swinging a little bit with each movement, letting his arms naturally follow the balance, Thranduil walked as if each step was measured. His pace was more graceful and less full of strength than Bard’s, but it was confident and demanded respect, showing superiority in its nobility. It almost made Bard laugh, thinking about it.

He started realizing that despite their earlier conversation, he had no idea what the man’s name was, and the man didn’t know who he was. “My name is Bard, by the way”, he tried breaking the rather awkwardly lingering silence. It didn’t even make the other look his way.

“Thranduil. Pleasure meeting you.” For a second there, Bard didn’t realize that ‘Thranduil’ was his name. It was strange as names could go, and only added to the air of mystery that seemed to flutter around Thranduil.

“The pleasure is mine”, Bard followed in the polite and rather formal exchange of names. For a moment there he expected Thranduil to give him his business card. Did teachers usually have those? He remembered that a long time ago, he’d designed one just for the fun of it, but he’d never actually had them printed. “I came here by bike”, he addressed the other matter at hand then. This comment had Thranduil look up just a little bit, but despite that, he turned his head away from Bard again without saying anything to it. “Would you mind if I took it with?”

That had Thranduil frown for but a moment. Not because he disapproved of Bard taking his bike, but apparently he thought it a ridiculous question. “Of course not. How else would you return home? There is plenty of space there to stall your bike.” Bard was glad Thranduil had an easier personality than it had seemed at first. Appearances could really deceive.

“Great, thanks”, Bard awkwardly said. Thranduil’s reply had eased him up a little, but at the same time it made him feel a bit of a fool for asking the question in the first place. “It’s just over there”, he remarked, vaguely gesturing in the direction of a shabby looking white bike. He recalled repainting it eons ago, and felt Thranduil’s eyes burning through the frame as if he was staring at it in utter contempt, and an almost threatening silence. “I’ll… Give me a moment!” Bard quickly said, before picking up the pace as he walked over to it.

The more his interaction with Thranduil lingered, the less at ease he was feeling. Was it even a good idea to go with him for a drink? He started doubting it. While fumbling with the lock on his bike, he could still feel Thranduil’s eyes burning in his back. He quickly stole a glance over his shoulder to verify, but oddly enough, Thranduil’s eyes were fixed on a book and not on Bard’s back.

“What’re you reading?” Bard wanted to know as he returned to Thranduil’s side, his bike by his side.

“When we Two parted”, Thranduil replied. “It was the last poem my wife ever read to me before she died. She loved Byron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we two parted  
> In silence and tears,  
> Half broken-hearted  
> To sever for years,  
> Pale grew thy cheek and cold,  
> Colder thy kiss;  
> Truly that hour foretold  
> Sorrow to this. 
> 
> The dew of the morning  
> Sunk chill on my brow--  
> It felt like the warning  
> Of what I feel now.  
> Thy vows are all broken,  
> And light is thy fame;  
> I hear thy name spoken,  
> And share in its shame. 
> 
> They name thee before me,  
> A knell to mine ear;  
> A shrudder comes o'er me--  
> Why wert thou so dear?  
> They know not I knew thee,  
> Who knew thee so well--  
> Long, long I shall rue thee,  
> Too deeply to tell. 
> 
> In secret we met—  
> In silence I grieve,  
> That thy heart could forget,  
> Thy spirit deceive  
> If I should meet thee  
> After long years,  
> How should I greet thee?--  
> With silence and tears.


	2. On Another's Sorrow

The silence that lingered made Thranduil understand that the other knew. The sorrow of his lost wife had reminded Bard of a pain that had remained hidden so far, but resurfaced with the mere mention of what the poem had meant to the man. Thranduil closed his book and slipped it back into his bag, yet keeping it close enough to have it in his hands within ten seconds.

Their eyes crossed, and all Bard could do was flash a quick smile at Thranduil, to reassure him everything was in order and that they could go on. Thranduil seemed less impacted by his words than Bard himself, but neither of them wished to address the matter any further.

They walked in silence, side by side, and Bard couldn’t say it felt awkward or unnatural. Each left to their own thoughts, it seemed as if Thranduil appreciated the silence more than it made him feel uneasy. Yet it was he who broke the silence rather than Bard himself. “It’s just over there, on the corner of the street, you see?” His words had Bard look up, and indeed, there was a small coffee shop. It looked old, but not shabby. The wood on the outside promised the feeling an old Irish pub gave one: familiar and cosy.

As they entered, the warmth engulfed Bard right away, and it almost felt like he was at his grandfather’s place. He’d been a fisher, one of the traditional sort, sailing out with his small boat, yet rarely using his nets. He’d preferred using a rod, and he’d taught Bard how to steer the barge he owned. Yet that barge had long since seen its best time, and it was in no condition to be taken out to the lake anymore.

He noticed the cheerful violin music only after that, and though it wasn’t authentic – no real violin player at least – it drew a sheepish grin on his face. He glanced over his shoulder at Thranduil, and he was met with a lightly twisted upwards smile. Thranduil knew this place and knew what to expect, but the excitement on the other’s face made it quite worthwhile for him too, and allowed him to re-experience the marvel of that small place. “Good afternoon, Beorn”, he greeted the giant man behind the counter, who was wiping out a real, authentic tankard.

He was huge, Bard thought, and hairy. As if his father had been a bear and his mother a giantess. But he didn’t comment on it. He’d not dare to, for the man looked as if he could punch him straight through the wall. “The usual?” the man asked in his deep and rather coarse voice. But even though he addressed Thranduil, his eyes were focused on Bard, the stranger of the two, as if he wanted to keep an eye on him and not let him escape his attention for even a mere second. Quite distrustful, and unnerving.

“It’s a little early for that”, Thranduil replied with a gentle smile. “I’ll just go for a coffee instead.”

His answer had the other raise his furry eyebrows. “Never heard you call it too early…” he started, but upon seeing Thranduil throw him a warning glance not to embarrass him in front of this newfound shabby ‘friend’ of his, Beorn quickly changed the sentence to a hushed: “Irish then?”

Thranduil glanced to the side, but it seemed Bard had not heard Beorn’s question, as he was too busy admiring the inside of the coffee shop. Or rather, tavern. Pub? A mixture, perhaps. It certainly looked like it had once been a place for travellers to stay the night, and a plaque read ‘since 1612’, priding the heritage of that place. Thranduil gave Beorn a quick, yet short nod. “What do you wish to have?” Thranduil then asked Bard, softly touching his upper arm to grab his attention.

And grab his attention it did. Bard abruptly turned his head upon the slightest touch, almost as if he was shocked, though it wasn’t as if the touch bothered him. It just surprised him. “I eh… the same”, Bard rushed to say in reply to the answer. Beorn’s eyes sparkled in amusement, but Thranduil’s expression tensed up.

“So a coffee”, Thranduil stated, his voice suddenly sounding a lot more teachery than before, which honestly surprised Bard more than the sudden touch of before. He glanced at Thranduil in confusion, but the shift in mood was not directed towards him, but at Beorn. There clearly was something going on there, something he was unaware of, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Yeah…” Bard reaffirmed. “A coffee.” Beorn softly chuckled as he turned around to get their order ready. Thranduil had already taken his wallet and placed the exact right amount on the counter, not allowing Bard to pay for himself and notice the difference in price for the ‘same’ order. Besides, he’d invited Bard. Though Bard briefly objected, Thranduil paid no attention to his words so long he nagged about the money, and the scruffy man quickly gave up on trying to convince him. He was more stubborn than anyone Bard had ever met. Even Bard himself. Or his children.

He followed Thranduil to a remote seat in the far corner of the tavern. The tables were of a solid dark oak, great craftsmanship. Bard let his hands slide over the smooth wooden surface. This place was damn great and he would make sure to remember it, just so he could go there again in the future. Who knows, maybe he’d run into Thranduil again. But then he recalled Thranduil had wished to speak to him about something in particular, the whole reason he’d been invited.

Beorn arrived with their coffees and placed them down in front of them, throwing Thranduil a playful wink. Thranduil thanked him in that stern tone of his again, as Bard lifted his coffee up and smelled the aroma. Warm and good, probably one of the best coffees he’d have in a long while. But then his eye fell on Thranduil’s cup, and the fact that it was different, slightly smaller than his own, had him frown. Thranduil however rose it to his face already and took a measured sip from his drink.

“So, you were applying for a job, I presume”, Thranduil finally started the conversation. “But let me guess, the school can’t afford an extra teacher, and you have an impressive CV? You were promised to be rung up as soon as there was a position available, or am I completely wrong?”

Bard was astonished by the other’s ability to read the situation. That, or the school’s chairman had been lying to his face. “Eh… yeah”, he admitted, after a short silence in which he’d contemplated the conversation he’d had with the man earlier that day. “How’d you know?” he asked then, not only out of curiosity, but also out of worry. He hoped he’d not been bullshitted this time. He’d had plenty of job interviews like that before, and not only was it tiring him, it was slowly starting to piss him off.

“He said that last time too”, Thranduil explained. “So it wasn’t a hard thing to figure out. Though it’s not entirely true. We are in need of more teachers, but the school cannot afford hiring more. As a matter of fact, earlier this year a colleague of mine got fired. He luckily found another job quickly, as he’s an experienced, loved and really great teacher. It was… stressful for him, though, as Elrond – his name – isn’t one of the youngest anymore.”

Bard wasn’t sure what to feel in that moment. He pitied the man for losing his job, but on the other hand, so had he, and he couldn’t find a new job as easily, and this Elrond had had the luck of finding one soon after being fired. He probably hadn’t known the struggle of making ends meet like Bard did, having three hungry mouths to feed, fees to pay, food to prepare… He often laid off on buying new things for himself when his children needed something, even though theoretically a new backpack was perhaps less important than a new, warm coat.

“Even more so”, Thranduil continued, not really aware of the thoughts that were playing through Bard’s head “Mr White went into retirement a short while back, and there hasn’t been a replacement for him either. But neither of them taught English, however.” He took another sip of his cup and let out a satisfied sigh. “You’ll only have a chance at getting that job when I’m gone.” He sounded strangely serene and calm when he said that, not the slightest hint of frustration or competition in his voice. “That’s why I asked you here.”

Bard didn’t really understand, and the frown on his face made that apparent. “What do you mean?” he wanted to know. “I can’t take your job. Your students love and adore you, and you need a job too. Unless you got a better job offer that pays twice as much…” It wouldn’t exactly surprise him, given how talented Thranduil was, but the short headshake of the other quickly made an end to that thought.

“I have another month to teach”, Thranduil said. “Then, I’m out. At least, for a while. And I need to know that the one who’ll replace me will be adequate.” He looked up, his cool blue eyes meeting Bard’s deep brown ones, and there was a hint of a plea in his gaze. “I want to put you to the test, so to speak”, Thranduil clarified a little bit more. “You seem capable enough, but I haven’t seen you in action so far. I want to know what you can do, and if… If it’s good, I’ll prepare you during the next month to take my place.”

Bard couldn’t really fathom what was being said to him. “Why?” was all he managed to ask at first, and then when Thranduil’s questioning gaze rested on his face, he forced himself to elaborate. “Why are you out next month? Why do you choose me as a replacement for you? How can you be sure I’ll be rung up and asked in the first place? I don’t understand, I-…”

But the sudden, gentle laugh that escaped Thranduil’s lips had him quiet. “Worried about me already?” Thranduil teased Bard. “We’re not even friends yet, and you’re already freaking out.” Bard wanted to reply to that, but Thranduil rose his hand, just a gesture that he shouldn’t interrupt him, and that his answers would come. “I’m starting therapy in about a month”, Thranduil explained then. “I’ve been ill for a while, and I can’t lay off on the treatment anymore. But I’ll get a good word out there for you. That is, if you fulfil my requirements.”

It explained quite a bit for Bard, but somehow, it was unsettling to know the truth behind those words. He wanted to ask what was wrong, and Thranduil knew by the way he was looked at, but Bard respected his privacy and didn’t pry any more. If he needed to know, Thranduil would tell him when the time was right for that. Thranduil had taken one of the beer felts from the stack and was writing on the back of it.

“Here”, he said. “My phone number and address. Ring me up tonight and we’ll make further arrangements to sort out the rest, the whens and wheres. I have to go now, though. My son is performing in a contest and I can’t miss out on it. Don’t want to either.” He smiled again as he got up, reaching out his hand at Bard to give him a formal goodbye. He picked up the empty cup and placed it on the counter on his way out, leaving Bard to himself with the beer felt clenched between his fingers and half a cup of coffee that was but lukewarm anymore instead of hot.

He looked up, watching Thranduil’s back as he stepped out the door, and with a sigh he put away the man’s contact information. Thranduil was a strange man, with beautiful eyes and a gorgeous smile, but when he smiled it was only with his lips. Those eyes never smiled, they showed no emotion at all as a matter of fact. Just… sorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I see another's woe,  
> And not be in sorrow too?  
> Can I see another's grief,  
> And not seek for kind relief?
> 
> Can I see a falling tear,  
> And not feel my sorrow's share?  
> Can a father see his child  
> Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
> 
> Can a mother sit and hear  
> An infant groan, an infant fear?  
> No, no! never can it be!  
> Never, never can it be!
> 
> And can He who smiles on all  
> Hear the wren with sorrows small,  
> Hear the small bird's grief and care,  
> Hear the woes that infants bear -
> 
> And not sit beside the nest,  
> Pouring pity in their breast,  
> And not sit the cradle near,  
> Weeping tear on infant's tear?
> 
> And not sit both night and day,  
> Wiping all our tears away?  
> O no! never can it be!  
> Never, never can it be!
> 
> He doth give His joy to all:  
> He becomes an infant small,  
> He becomes a man of woe,  
> He doth feel the sorrow too.
> 
> Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,  
> And thy Maker is not by:  
> Think not thou canst weep a tear,  
> And thy Maker is not near.
> 
> O He gives to us His joy,  
> That our grief He may destroy:  
> Till our grief is fled and gone  
> He doth sit by us and moan.  
> Can I see another's woe,  
> And not be in sorrow too?  
> Can I see another's grief,  
> And not seek for kind relief?
> 
> Can I see a falling tear,  
> And not feel my sorrow's share?  
> Can a father see his child  
> Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
> 
> Can a mother sit and hear  
> An infant groan, an infant fear?  
> No, no! never can it be!  
> Never, never can it be!
> 
> And can He who smiles on all  
> Hear the wren with sorrows small,  
> Hear the small bird's grief and care,  
> Hear the woes that infants bear -
> 
> And not sit beside the nest,  
> Pouring pity in their breast,  
> And not sit the cradle near,  
> Weeping tear on infant's tear?
> 
> And not sit both night and day,  
> Wiping all our tears away?  
> O no! never can it be!  
> Never, never can it be!
> 
> He doth give His joy to all:  
> He becomes an infant small,  
> He becomes a man of woe,  
> He doth feel the sorrow too.
> 
> Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,  
> And thy Maker is not by:  
> Think not thou canst weep a tear,  
> And thy Maker is not near.
> 
> O He gives to us His joy,  
> That our grief He may destroy:  
> Till our grief is fled and gone  
> He doth sit by us and moan.


	3. The Haunted Palace

Bard glanced from the felt to the number, then to the house that belonged with said number. The address was definitely right. It still was after the fourth time checking too. ‘Amon Lanc’, the plaque on the gate read, right above the letter box. The tall manor that stared back at him made Bard slightly uncomfortable. He hadn’t really known what to expect as Thranduil’s home, but it definitely hadn’t been this. Not that it didn’t suit Thranduil, but the thought of such a… giant estate had not even dared cross Bard’s mind.

He pressed the bell, and soon a soft buzzing sounded, before the black metal gate slowly came into motion. “Do come in, just follow the path up to the door”, Thranduil’s voice sounded. “I’ll come your way.” Bard wanted to object, but the soft ‘click’ alerted him that Thranduil had no intention of letting him. Thranduil seemed to have picked up on Bard’s noble demeanour and already figured out a way to avoid it and get what he wanted from the man anyway.

Bard walked in, the rock crisping under his feet. A creaking behind him had him turn around briefly, and he could see how the metal gate was already closing again. Quite an earie feeling it gave him, but at the same time, it thrilled him. The way lead straight towards the manor, which was built in a flat U-shape with a garden resting between its legs. Two rows of tall trees accompanied the way he walked, casting him in a permanent shadow and hiding the gardens that laid behind.

The grey walls slowly came closer, and as he neared them, Bard realized they weren’t in nearly as good a state as he’d expected them to be. The walls were riddled with ivy. He’d arrived at the courtyard, where Thranduil was indeed waiting for him, seated on the edge of a giant fountain that wasn’t currently active. There was water inside it, but its green colour indicated that it had not been refreshed in a long while. The cracks in the stone weren’t a sign of proper maintenance either.

“I trust you found the place easily”, Thranduil greeted Bard warmly. It seemed he wanted to add something to that, but didn’t right away, giving Bard the opportunity to squirm in a reply first.

“It wasn’t hard to find, no, but I did have to double check on the address. I wasn’t expecting… this.” He was honest as he spoke. “I was darn sure that when I rung at the door some butler would inform me that I was bothering his royal Majesty or something.”

That comment was rewarded with a sudden laugh, something that startled Bard so much he didn’t know where to start admiring it. The dimples in Thranduil’s cheeks, the way he squeezed his eyes, or the simple fact that it was, for a change, so darn genuine. “As a matter of fact”, Thranduil remarked when his chuckling had subsided “we are related to the royal family. Just not that of this country. And just not one that’s currently y’know, in power.”

An old noble family, that explained a lot. “I’m still not calling you ‘Your Highness’”, Bard objected, trying to get another one of those laughs to escape from Thranduil. He was much more pleasant when he laughed and didn’t bring up those tough subjects accompanied by his stern gaze. But to no avail, as the laugh this time didn’t come again.

“You do realize that would be insulting to a king”, Thranduil remarked. “And given I’m the head of the family, I would be king. ‘Your Highness’ would be reserved for my son. ‘Your Majesty’ is the only proper title for a king. I teach history, aside from English, you see.” He walked the staircase up to the front door, pushing it open and holding it for Bard to pass him by and enter the house. “Not that any of that matters. It’s history from a few centuries ago.”

The first thing Bard noticed was the entrance hall, of course. A giant marble staircase started at the centre, halfway splitting in two and each half going in opposite directions. One of those staircases that you often saw the pretty love interest descend from in the movies. He was trying to picture Thranduil like that, but the idea of Thranduil in a red dress wasn’t helping much.

It was as if Thranduil could smell that he was thinking of something stupid, as Bard’s thoughts were interrupted with: “Let’s continue to my office.” An office? Bard almost wanted to make a comment on that, but decided that perhaps keeping his mouth shut might be for the best, at least for now. Thranduil walked him upstairs and brought him into a large room, a room that seemed to have ‘gathering dust’ as a purpose rather than being an office.

The walls were panelled with a dark wood. All the furniture seemed to match the panelling, reflecting back on what kind of riches that had been used to establish the estate and everything that was within it. Bard was making his eyes scan the room, until they lingered on a portrait. Large cuts were made over its surface, defacing what looked like had been a noble portrait of Thranduil and who must’ve been his son. “What happened to it?” Bard wanted to know, frowning. He turned his gaze back at Thranduil, who was looking at the portrait too now.

“Someone decided that it wasn’t pretty enough and planted a knife in it.” Thranduil turned his gaze to Bard again now. “It’s not something I wish to discuss at this moment”, he said, walking to the large wooden desk. The walls were mostly occupied with bookshelves, though they didn’t exactly match the rest of the interior. They must’ve been added later, which made Bard figure that this was pretty much where Thranduil kept all the literature he’d gathered over the years.

Yet one of the panels behind one of the bookshelves seemed cracked, he realized all of a sudden. He turned once more to Thranduil, again with a frown on his face, but Thranduil’s face had a constricted and cold expression on it. He was clinging to the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles had turned into a pale white, almost like that of a corpse. These sudden changes in behaviour made a chill run down Bard’s spine and quickly had him decide not to address the matter.

“Let’s get to the point”, Thranduil suddenly broke the uncomfortable silence. “I want you to prepare a lesson for me. You choose a poem of any famous poet and you create a lesson around it. When you’re done, I’ll be your class, and you’ll teach me about the poem you prepared. You get about a week for that. In the meantime, I’ll educate you about my class, the things they already know and the things that I had planned out for them to see over the course of the semester.”

Bard nodded. He wasn’t exactly fond of the way that things were playing out, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. He needed a job, and the only chance he seemed to have was if Thranduil made sure that he was the most suitable candidate. If he didn’t take this opportunity, Thranduil would find another potential teacher, teach him everything about his class, and then he’d start with a certain advantage. Bard just wasn’t certain what to make of Thranduil’s queer way of getting things done, as well as the strange atmosphere that surrounded them. “Very well”, he agreed. “I’ll get you a lesson ready by next week.”

Thranduil looked up now, pleased with the answer he was given, though nothing of his demeanour would give that away. “Good”, Thranduil stated. “As for the rest, I suggest you come by every evening to go over the rest.”

Bard wanted to object once again, something that was becoming a familiar feeling when being around Thranduil. But he knew the man would get what he wanted eventually. The only hope he had was to bargain. “I have three children that I have to take care of”, he simply stated the facts. “I can’t leave them in the evenings. They can’t cook for themselves yet, and who’ll do the laundry? It’s simply not possible.”

It seemed that for a change, he’d managed to put Thranduil at an impasse, as the man’s gaze had changed from ‘business’ to ‘thoughtful’. “I see your point”, Thranduil eventually said. “But as I work during the day, I simply cannot come up with another time. Unless…”

Bard squinted his eyes. He had to push a little further. This job was important to him, and he needed it, sorely. “Unless what?” he carefully asked.

“I don’t know if your pride will allow it”, Thranduil started “but I would suggest you take your children with. They could study and have dinner here instead.”

While at first he’d wanted to jump up and call out how idiotic it was for Thranduil to call him prideful, Bard realized that the other had a point. His pride wasn’t perhaps of the same category as Thranduil’s, but he did have it. He didn’t want to live off the other’s back. “You’re right, my pride doesn’t allow it”, Bard agreed.

“I’ll think on something”, Thranduil said, something that relieved the other. It appeared as though the blond one didn’t want to let him go that easily either, just like Bard didn’t want to let go of that job either. He probably would’ve swallowed his pride eventually and just take what was offered to him, but if that wasn’t a necessity, he wouldn’t do it. “For now we’ll limit ourselves to the weekend, if that’s alright with you.”

Bard quickly nodded. The weekend would have to do for now, he figured. It’d take him an entire day of time in which he couldn’t do the odd jobs, which he usually did. Walking dogs, cleaning windows… Anything that got him a little bit of money to take care of his kids, he’d do. “The weekends it is”, he agreed. “But after my first lesson, I want an agreement”, he then boldly demanded. “I can’t afford to be prancing about for a month only to realize that all my effort has been a waste.”

“After a week”, Thranduil agreed, reaching out his hand. “I’ll get you certainty then. Legal certainty.” Which was more than Bard could’ve hoped for. He grabbed Thranduil’s hand and shook it, looking at the pale skin on the man’s hand. He looked unhealthy, Bard realized, his eyes shooting up at the other’s face. Withering, almost like his house was. He glanced at the portrait again, the gentle green eyes of the man whose face was torn off looking down at him with their regal gaze. But those eyes weren’t the one that bothered him most; it were the child’s cool blue ones that looked at him with a gaze so lifeless and hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the greenest of our valleys  
> By good angels tenanted,  
> Once a fair and stately palace—  
> Radiant palace—reared its head.  
> In the monarch Thought’s dominion,  
> It stood there!  
> Never seraph spread a pinion  
> Over fabric half so fair! 
> 
> Banners yellow, glorious, golden,  
> On its roof did float and flow  
> (This—all this—was in the olden  
> Time long ago)  
> And every gentle air that dallied,  
> In that sweet day,  
> Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,  
> A wingèd odor went away. 
> 
> Wanderers in that happy valley,  
> Through two luminous windows, saw  
> Spirits moving musically  
> To a lute’s well-tunèd law,  
> Round about a throne where, sitting,  
> Porphyrogene!  
> In state his glory well befitting,  
> The ruler of the realm was seen. 
> 
> And all with pearl and ruby glowing  
> Was the fair palace door,  
> Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing  
> And sparkling evermore,  
> A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty  
> Was but to sing,  
> In voices of surpassing beauty,  
> The wit and wisdom of their king. 
> 
> But evil things, in robes of sorrow,  
> Assailed the monarch’s high estate;  
> (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow  
> Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)  
> And round about his home the glory  
> That blushed and bloomed  
> Is but a dim-remembered story  
> Of the old time entombed. 
> 
> And travellers, now, within that valley,  
> Through the red-litten windows see  
> Vast forms that move fantastically  
> To a discordant melody;  
> While, like a ghastly rapid river,  
> Through the pale door  
> A hideous throng rush out forever,  
> And laugh—but smile no more.


	4. Daffodils

“Well, it seems like you don’t have much choice.” His eldest daughter was a reasonable woman. Yes, woman, for though she was young in body, she was pretty wise for her age. Bard somehow pitied her for that. She had not had the chance to be a proper child. To play with dolls or toy trucks, Bard really didn’t have a preference for his children, so long they laughed and smiled. She hadn’t even had the chance to go into one of those awkward frenzies of crushing on some famous idol or even one of the boys at her school.

“I have a choice”, Bard countered her. “I can reject his offer and go my merry way of looking for a job.” He had his hands wrapped around the mug of hot coco Sigrid had prepared for him. She sat across of him at the dinner table. He’d gotten home late and had to eat alone, but his daughter had a heart of gold too and took pity on him, joining him and while at first she’d just asked him about his day, as per usual, she’d quickly taken to interrogating him.

“Well, looking for another job will take you a while longer than a month, I’m afraid”, Sigrid expressed, thoughtful of her father’s words. “Besides, if he only temporary is out of the game, which seems the case since he’s doing so much effort to make you ‘worthy’ of his place, you’ll need to find another job in the meantime. It doesn’t hurt to have something going on.”

She was right, as usual, but then again she didn’t know of Thranduil’s weird behaviour. And Bard wasn’t sure he should mention it to her either. Just like what kind of place he lived in. He sighed and dropped his gaze to the mug he held, before taking another sip of it. “I’m doing it for now anyway”, he stated with a shrug. “We already agreed and I’m not backing out of it as long as it works. If it doesn’t, I can still change my mind.”

“Exactly”, Sigrid agreed, before she got up and walked to her father. She pressed a kiss on his forehead and received an embrace in return. “I’m turning in for the night now, da”, she said. She put her empty mug away with Bard’s empty plate and what other dishes hadn’t been done yet. He finished his own coco with a heavy sigh, before returning to his bedroom.

Sometimes it still bothered him that he slept there, but in the end, he liked the room. The furniture was made of dark and heavy wood, the wallpaper a sunset orange. Overall, it gave him a warm and cosy impression, just like his wife had loved it, and while it hadn’t been his choice, he thought it looked amazing. True, the day his wife had left him and their children for another, he’d wished to plant his nails in the wallpaper and tear it off without a second thought.

But a divorce wasn’t cheap. And neither was taking care of three children. At least at the time he’d still had a job. Not that he had had to fight his wife over custody: she’d found someone else, and that someone didn’t see any space in his life for three children that weren’t his. So Tilda, Bain and Sigrid were left with Bard. And they hadn’t seen their mother since.

Bard remembered how quiet Bain had been. Soon after he’d fallen into a rebellious period, one that Bard had endured patiently, giving his son the time and space he needed to discover who he was, but at the same time still making sure he was always there for him. He also remembered how Tilda had cried the first few nights, because her mother had turned her back on her, and she felt like she wasn’t loved. Both Bard and Sigrid had consoled her, night after night, and Bard even allowed her for a while to stay with him at night, where she could hold onto her da when it was hard to sleep.

Sigrid had been the toughest of the three. She’d not shed a single tear, at least not where the others could see it. She’d started taking care of the household chores that her mother used to do, but one night, she’d just walked into Bard’s room. He was still correcting some of the tests from earlier that week, but the moment Sigrid walked in and he looked at her, he knew what was on her mind. They’d sat with each other in silence for a while, but Sigrid too had eventually cried against her father’s shoulder.

It was that which had cost him his job eventually; being forced to take the time to be there for his family, work out the legal matters and make sure everything was in order for them to continue their lives properly. He didn’t blame his children for that, however could he? He hurt too, he needed the time too.

 

* * *

 

“Ada”, the voice woke him up from his thoughts. He was lounging in his chair, the poetry book in his lap and leaning on the armrest. His head rested against his knuckles as he lazily gazed down upon the slightly yellowed paper. He kept the pages open by stretching his long fingers out over the white space at the bottom. He let out a soft sigh and moved, perhaps for the first time in hours, his head to look up at his son.

He hooked his fingers behind his glasses and pulled them down, hanging them on the edge of his white shirt. “Legolas?” he asked, slightly surprised to find his son with such a serious gaze directed at him. Their relationship had watered down since his wife had come to die. “What is it?” he wanted to know then, vaguely gesturing at the sofa that was position more or less next to him, inviting him to take a seat.

Legolas took up on the invitation and sat down, right away signalling his father that this talk would last longer than just a few minutes. Thranduil picked up his bookmark, a fancy one made of fake gold that he’d bought in Tokyo for his wife ages ago. It had daffodils on it, and a red ribbon to hang out of the book. His wife had adored that bookmark, and Thranduil now refused to use another than hers.

“I noticed there was a man in the house earlier”, Legolas started. Thranduil had just put his poetry book on the low table next to his chair, and now shifted in his place, giving Legolas that curious look of his. A look that said that he knew where Legolas was going with this, but that he wouldn’t answer until Legolas finished what he was going at. “So…?” Legolas asked after a short silence.

“So. What so?” Thranduil returned the question. “Son, if you can’t even formulate a proper question, then I’m afraid our conversation will be pretty boring for both of us.” An agitated sigh escaped from his son’s lips, and he could see the young man roll his eyes at him. He was quite the teenager, and raising him on his own was a tough task for Thranduil.

“So who is he? What’s he doing here?” Legolas finally asked, however reluctant he sounded. It made Thranduil smile just a little bit. He liked having these kind of back-and-forth conversations with his son, both of them trying to outwit each other. Luckily for Thranduil, so far Legolas never managed to get the better of him. He enjoyed it while it lasted, for he was aware that his son wouldn’t always remain a teenager that had to listen to his father. One day Legolas would sass his father. There was no doubt there.

“He’s going to fall in for me when I’m taking my leave from work”, Thranduil elaborated. “I want him to have all the information he needs to get fully prepared in front of my class. He’ll get access to my lesson materials from both the lessons already seen and the ones he’ll teach in my stead.” He tried to give as much clarity to his son as he could offer, but it seemed to not please Legolas at all.

“Fall in for you, huh?” Legolas asked with a scoff. “As a teacher, you mean.” He got up so abruptly the couch he’d sat on moved a little bit, before he walked away, his paces long and fast, showing Thranduil that his son had no intention of continuing the conversation any further. But he didn’t need to say anything anymore, for Thranduil knew what played on his mind.

Legolas was afraid. He’d lost a mother, and now his father was sick. He was upset, for Thranduil wished to leave behind his work in the hands of another man. He thought he’d lose his father and his father did not care that he’d leave Legolas behind. But he did.

Tired, Thranduil stood up. His body ached with the pain of the disease, the agony spreading through his bones. He’d learned to ignore it, yet it still was there, and this time, he could feel it shoot through his very spine, almost making him double over. He was glad Legolas did not have to witness him like that, especially not after the things that had just been said.

He was withering now, just like a flower, just like his wife, his daffodil, had. He knew what kind of pain had spread through her bones, within her body, and what kind of fight she had to do just to draw a smile on her lips. With each day he fought against it, he loved the memory he had of her even more. She had been a strong woman, and he knew Legolas had inherited that strength from her. Even if he came to die, something he dearly wished not to happen, even if it were only for his son, he knew Legolas would pull through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wandered lonely as a cloud  
> That floats on high o'er vales and hills,  
> When all at once I saw a crowd,  
> A host, of golden daffodils;  
> Beside the lake, beneath the trees,  
> Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
> 
> Continuous as the stars that shine  
> And twinkle on the milky way,  
> They stretched in never-ending line  
> Along the margin of a bay:  
> Ten thousand saw I at a glance,  
> Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
> 
> The waves beside them danced; but they  
> Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:  
> A poet could not but be gay,  
> In such a jocund company:  
> I gazed—and gazed—but little thought  
> What wealth the show to me had brought:
> 
> For oft, when on my couch I lie  
> In vacant or in pensive mood,  
> They flash upon that inward eye  
> Which is the bliss of solitude;  
> And then my heart with pleasure fills,  
> And dances with the daffodils.


	5. Dust of Snow

The second time he arrived at that oversized house, Bard was no less impressed than the first time. It still loomed over him like a threatening giant, telling him to be careful where he walked. But this time, his gaze wasn’t focused upwards, but he managed to look around a little more. There was a stone path covered in moss leading to the garden, though the garden itself was divided into strange compartments he couldn’t properly see without entering it, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to yet.

Upon arriving at the front door, Bard noticed it was opened, though just slightly. He wondered if it was an invitation for him to come in without ringing the bell, but when he looked at the button, he noticed a note sticking to it. “Does not work” it read. They were aware he was coming, for the intercom at the front gate worked properly. It seemed the note had been there for a while, since it had gathered quite the amount of dust already. Hesitant, Bard pushed open the door, hearing the heavy wood scraping over the marble tiles of the floor. He gritted his teeth, the noise making him uncomfortable, but he had to open it just enough to slip through.

“Eh… Hello?” he called out, a little bit uncertain. His voice echoed through the hall, and though it felt strange, he knew he now at least had the time to look around a bit more than Thranduil had given him the chance before. It both thrilled him, but it also made him excited. Such a big mansion should prove to be interesting to explore. Not that he would go far, he already knew that much. If Thranduil showed up and he found himself in some awkward place?

He was wondering in the hall for a bit, but then came to the conclusion it was too strange to lurk around in someone else’s house. Yet… Thranduil knew he was there, but wasn’t anywhere around? Or if it hadn’t been Thranduil, who’d opened the gate for him then? He recalled hearing only the typical buzzing, but nobody had greeted him. Maybe it wasn’t Thranduil. But who else? He walked towards the first door on the right, big and of heavy wood, much like the front door, though it was decorated more elaborately.

He knocked, softly, and then opened the door, poking his head through the gap. He was greeted by the sight of a massive living room, despite it being largely empty. There were some old comfortable couches surrounding a fireplace decorated with withered gold and cracked marble. A frayed, ragged rug with sallow and bleached by sunlight lay there as well, in the centre of it, a man with his back directed at Bard.

He wore a green sweater that looked home-knitted. The long blond hair hanging over the lean, yet muscular back had Bard approach with a gentle: “Thranduil?” But as soon as the young man turned around, Bard realized this must not be Thranduil, but his son. They resembled strikingly, though as soon as Thranduil’s son got up, Bard noticed his eyes were bluer, much like the sky on a bright day, and his hair more golden, though the sun had made it seem lighter than it actually was. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’d mistaken you for…”

“My father, no doubt. There’s no one else that lives here. And definitely no one else whose name is Thranduil”, the young man interrupted, rather bluntly. Bard wondered if he got that from his father, but he didn’t dare address it. The young one seemed upset enough as it was. “You’re… Bard, probably”, the young man stated then, frowning slightly. “I’m Legolas.” He didn’t seem to forget at least the proper etiquette. “Ada’s upstairs. I’ll bring you to him.”

Bard nodded, quickly thanking him. The son was much like his father, he thought to himself. Did Bain resemble him that much as well? He couldn’t rightly tell. Generally speaking, Bain seemed in a better mood than this young man, but who was he to judge? He couldn’t spell out what Legolas was feeling, going through. After all, his mother had died, and who knew how long ago that had been. Maybe it was a recent affair. And there was clearly something up with his father as well.

Legolas guided them upstairs, through a darkened corridor, where they passed by a shattered window, and Bard could feel the cold creep through it as if some icy creature had decided he was in dire need of a tight embrace. A shiver ran down his spine. He wanted to ask why they didn’t fix that window, but he wisely kept quiet. Pissing off Legolas was the last thing on his to do list. “It’s over here”, Legolas finally said, gesturing at a door. He knocked, then right away pushed open the door and gesturing at Bard to go in.

“Is it really okay to just go in?” Bard started asking, but by the time he got to ‘okay’, Legolas had already turned his back on him and was making his way downstairs again, leaving Bard at the door, a little clueless as to what was expected of him. He let out a soft sigh and walked in, but not without knocking softly on the door again. “Thranduil?” he carefully called out.

No immediate answer came, which had Bard wait for a moment at the door. The room was rather dark, though a draft told him that there was a window open somewhere. He walked in that direction, carefully stretching his hands out to make sure he didn’t walk into something, though it was only a partial success. He finally arrived at the window, and carefully he pulled the curtain to the side, letting the rays of the warm autumn sun breach through the glass into the room. Particles of dust were dancing in front of his eyes.

But behind the curtain, there was an oriel behind the curtains, in which Thranduil was resting. Sleeping, Bard quickly confirmed, though he wondered how the man could catch sleep at all in such a cold spot. Quietly, he closed the window. He cussed wordlessly when the wood croaked, for a moment sure Thranduil would wake up due to the noise, but a sigh of relief escaped him when he realized it wasn’t the case.

He continued to open the rest of the curtains, finally casting enough light to see how massive Thranduil’s bedroom was – or what was left of it, at least. The walls were high, almost like those of a palace, and finished with light wooden panels. Upon closer inspection, Bard figured it was probably maple, brought over from Canada, though judging by the state of it, it must’ve been at least several decades old. The part that wasn’t panelled was decorated with a wallpaper covered in flowers and a soft greenish blue background. It was bleached, just like the cool steel blue curtains.

Bard wasn’t sure he was right when he thought he recognized the wood, but he assumed it to be since his grandfather had had furniture like it and could never stop boasting about it. As predicted, the furniture was all made from the same type of wood, but terribly out of fashion. People nowadays preferred much more modern styles, rather than… this classical style.

The wardrobes were, for a lack of a better word, massive, and their doors had designs carved out. He wondered how one person could have so many clothes that they needed this many wardrobes. For a brief moment, Bard wanted to delve into one of them, but a quick glance over his shoulder at Thranduil had him change his mind – not because the man was waking up, but because guilt and shame crept over him. Instead, he moved to the bed, a little bit intimidated by the sheer size of the thing: it was on an increase, and at least four people could fit next to each other in it. A gentle sky blue velvet canopy shielded part of it from sight, but the messy state of the sheets alerted Bard that it was definitely in use.

At the bed’s end, there was a large box, and upon hesitantly opening it, Bard found what he’d hoped to find: blankets. They were in an equally poor state as the rest of the house, which had once been a splendour of the Rococo style, the furniture adorned with gold leaf which had now scaled off for the most part. Bard picked up one of those blankets. It felt rather coarse, though it probably had once been soft and smooth. He carried it over towards the sleeping Thranduil and carefully draped it over the man.

A murmur escaped the blond one, and for a second Bard thought yet again that he’d woken the man up, but once again it turned out to be a false alarm. He observed him for a bit, shifting in his spot. He was comfortable, and with good reason. Bard only realized now that the windowsill was, in fact, cushioned. He shook his head softly, making his brown hair dance. He wondered how they’d come to be like this, impoverished yet with such a mansion.

In any case, he refused to wake up the sleeping man, and instead decided to loiter around the room. Just like the office – which wasn’t far from there, come to think of it – there were several bookcases, filled to the brim with older and newer volumes, though the latter were oddly more rare than the previous. At the centre of the bookcases, there were a few couches neatly placed on a round rug, a small coffee table in the middle with some decorative silverware on top of it, though most of it was covered in dust.

Bard picked up one of the books that piqued his interest, leafed through it and put it back again. He browsed some more through Thranduil’s collection, until he finally settled on an old leather-bound book of hand-written poetry. It did not have a title, nor did have any notes on who the author was, so Bard figured it must’ve been someone of Thranduil’s family.

 

* * *

 

“Bard”, the sudden sound of the voice next to him sounded, and Bard nearly jumped up at the sound of it. He’d dozed off, just slightly, the book still resting in his lap. Thranduil had woken up, apparently, and found it necessary to quietly sit down next to him before leaning awkwardly close and then calling out so gently for him. Bard’s wide eyes stared at Thranduil in horror, which had the other frown briefly, but then he laughed.

“I’m sorry!” Bard called out. “I didn’t mean to intrude- or impose”, he stammered, afraid that Thranduil would get mad at him for staying in his room. It was after all quite the private space, and he knew he wouldn’t exactly appreciate someone inviting themselves in. Only when he realized Thranduil was still laughing faintly, he eased up a little.

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep on you”, Thranduil noted calmly. “It shows how bad a host I am, and how kind a soul you are for not waking me up.” Bard wanted to object that anyone waking up Thranduil would lack a heart, seeing as how pale and thin he was, but then that remembrance had him shut up right away. Thranduil did look pale and thin, and as the blond one reached out for the book in Bard’s lap, perhaps interested in what had caught Bard’s attention, the brunet realized that this man was little more than a skeleton with skin.

“Thranduil”, Bard addressed him cautiously. He didn’t want to step on any toes, but the question was burning on his lips too badly. “I know I’m not exactly… in the position to ask this, but perhaps…” Thranduil turned his gaze at Bard, and as their eyes met, Bard found himself at a loss of words for a second. Though that gaze was cool and collected, Bard saw the kindness in those eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” Bard finally uttered the question that had been on his lips for so long, but right away noticed how his question could be terribly misinterpreted. He rushed to correct himself, but Thranduil already interrupted him.

“Same as everyone else nowadays; cancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way a crow  
> Shook down on me  
> The dust of snow  
> From a hemlock tree 
> 
> Has given my heart  
> A change of mood  
> And saved some part  
> Of a day I had rued.


	6. A Character

Bard was silently staring at the man next to him, wondering how he could be so calm, so composed about any of this. Thranduil’s attention had already shifted by then, though, as if the matter was trivial and terribly mundane to him, as if his sickness did not touch him anymore, yet it so clearly did. His eyes were focused on the leather book of poems that Bard had chosen to read from. He faintly smiled at it as his long fingers turned the pages, memories clearly washing over him one by one.

It was clear that this book was of great importance to Thranduil, though Bard could not tell why. “Did you know the person who wrote those poems?” Bard inquired then. It seemed the most logical explanation. Thranduil looked up at him, and a tender sadness clouded his expression. He nodded, barely a movement really, but Bard noticed it nonetheless. He wanted to bite his tongue, but heard himself asking: “Who?”

“My father”, Thranduil said, not really disturbed by the question apparently, though the memory of his father seemed to ache him. Bard had to think of the ruined portrait in Thranduil’s office. He wanted to ask about it, but decided that might just be stretching it too far. Just a moment after, Thranduil suddenly slammed the book shut, his breathing slightly too fast for Bard’s liking. Something was upsetting the man.

Bard figured it would be best to change the subject, make Thranduil think of something else quickly. “Hey eh, I promised the kids I’d be back on time for dinner”, he rushed to explain. “So perhaps we could start on the task at hand?” The suggestion seemed to make Thranduil realize what Bard had really come for.

“I’m sorry”, he quickly apologized. He placed the poetry book on the coffee table and got up. “I have wasted away your free hours.” Bard shook his head, not accepting the apology, for he didn’t think there was one needed. Thranduil smiled in return, grateful that Bard cut him some slack. He glanced at the grand clock that slowly ticked away time, and realized how late it already was.

“Perchance you would like to stay over for dinner?” Thranduil suggested all of a sudden. He hesitated for a moment. “That is, if you care for your children to join us?” Bard wasn’t so sure of it. On one hand, he would love to stay. On the other, he didn’t know if his children would be able to get there on their own, in one piece.

“I’d love to”, he started “and I’m sure my children would as well.” He wanted to add a ‘but’ after that, yet Thranduil cheerfully interrupted him, and Bard hadn’t the heart to tell him otherwise.

“Grand, you can make use of the phone in the hallway at the entrance to ring up your children”, Thranduil stated, walking out of the room and clearly expecting Bard to follow. With a little sigh, the latter obediently hopped after Thranduil. “I shall be glad to meet them”, Thranduil babbled, though Bard wasn’t really listening, just trying to come up with a reasonably simple explanation for his children to get to the mansion. “I’m sure Legolas would love some children his own age to hang out with.”

“Eh, I’m not sure they are the same age”, Bard weakly objected. Sigrid came closest in age, though Bard couldn’t say how old Legolas was exactly. As he couldn’t for Thranduil. He had the impression the man might be older than him, but he didn’t look the part. He just looked… sick. Not old. Bain was probably a few years younger than Legolas, and perhaps the two wouldn’t really see eye to eye. Bain was slightly rather competitive after all. Both of them were into archery, and it could either lead to a bond, or lead to strife. And then there was Tilda, the youngest of them all. She’d only look up to Legolas, Bard considered. But it never hurt to try.

“They can still get along”, Thranduil said, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t say no before you try.” A wise thing to live by, but not always as easy. Thranduil brought Bard to the phone, gesturing at it for him to call his home, and then left the room. He wished to give the man some privacy while phoning his children, and at the same time make use of that time to inform Legolas. He’d need his son’s help in the kitchen after all. Perhaps he could bond with Legolas a little then too. Not that they really needed ‘bonding’, but since Legolas was feeling so bad, he perhaps could use some more time together with his father.

And getting him to get to know Bard seemed like a major plus: if he liked Bard, he’d feel less upset with his presence. Bard’s children were to form a bridge between them. “Eh, you invited them over for dinner?” Legolas seemed all but enthused, just like Thranduil had expected.

“Yeah, and you’re going to help me prepare it for them”, Thranduil stated. He was pulling his hair in a ponytail, making sure it was out of the way as well as no loose hairs would get in the food as easily. That could ruin appetite quite quickly after all. “No pouting and no buts”, Thranduil interrupted his son before Legolas could object. He walked to the kitchen, hearing how his son was muttering behind him. It reminded him of himself that age.

Legolas walked into the kitchen, hair already in a similar ponytail as his father’s. Thranduil tossed him an apron, before he picked one out for himself. “Mr. Good lookin’ is cookin’”, it read, whereas Legolas’ said: “World’s okayest cook”. “You’re giving me this one again?” Legolas complained.

“Of course”, Thranduil said with a playful wink. “I’m the good looking one, you’re the okay one.” Legolas mumbled something again, but Thranduil knew he wasn’t upset with that snide remark. “Come here, ion-nin”, he demanded then in a soft voice. Legolas obediently came closer, and Thranduil knew it wasn’t because he was being a ‘good son’, but rather because he wanted to.

Gently he wrapped his arms around his son, tucking Legolas’ face into his shoulder as he ran his fingers through the blond ponytail. “We’ll be alright”, Thranduil promised Legolas, a soft whisper in his son’s ear. “Maybe you’ll end up being the good looking one for a while, but I’ll be back to reclaim that title from you.” A soft laugh escaped Legolas.

“As if”, Legolas’ competitive mood suddenly showed. He was looking up to his father, though they differed relatively little in height. The strange mood that had lingered between them the past few days had cleared up. Not entirely, but largely at least. Thranduil let go of his son, and turned his attention to the kitchen. He ran his hand over the marble counter, tracing a massive crack that almost split the surface entirely.

“What’ll we make?” he asked his son’s opinion, uncertain what was suitable to serve a hungry family of four. Legolas gave it a thought. They couldn’t go shopping, so it had to be something made of what they already had. “What do you think of a _croque-monsieur_?” Thranduil then suggested. “Don’t need much for that except ham, cheese and bread. And of course, some vegetables of choosing.”

Legolas nodded, enthusiastic about the idea. Things like that were easy to vary in terms of quantity, and everyone could eat their fill. It was also relatively cheap. “Good”, he declared. “I’m going to grate some carrots and cut up cucumber”, he offered. Thranduil gave him a short nod, before fetching the machine. He plugged it in already, allowing the plates to grow hot before carefully spreading some butter on both sides.

 

* * *

 

By the time Bard was done calling his children, having explained to them at least four times how to get to the manor, and forced Sigrid to write down the address so they’d not be as confused about it as he first had been, the table had already been put. Bard just walked in as Legolas placed the cutlery. “Woah”, he expressed his wonder. “Are you expecting a company of thirteen dwarves too?” Bard joked at all the food that was being put on the table for him and his children. It was definitely more than they’d ever need, and such hospitality from a family that clearly had lost a lot of their wealth, impressed him greatly.

Legolas gave him a strange glance, clearly wondering what kind of joke that was. Perhaps he just didn’t exactly appreciate dwarves in general, Bard thought to himself. A sharp buzzing sounded all of a sudden. It had Bard jump briefly, but Legolas didn’t seem to be bothered much by it. “Probably your children”, he stated as he walked over to what looked like a crossbreed between a thermostat and a wall-phone. He pressed a button, which resulted in yet another buzzing sound, albeit a different one than before. Legolas unhooked the horn and dryly stated: “Just follow the path.” He was clearly used to people coming over for the first time.

Thranduil walked in just then, and a smile was drawn on his face. “Your children arrived?” he asked Bard, though he already knew the answer. Bard was briefly distracted by the apron, realizing only now the two matched in colour, though not in print. He chuckled lightly at Thranduil’s. Not wrong, he thought to himself, rising his eyebrow just slightly.

Bard and Thranduil walked to the front door. The taller one slipped out of his apron and threw it onto a decorative table, before taking a seat on the marble steps. He patted the spot next to him, inviting Bard to take a seat as well. “You’re awfully cheerful”, Bard remarked, which had Thranduil laugh briefly.

“Awfully?” he asked. “I hope it’s not awful. We don’t often receive guests, though we used to. It’s refreshing to have some people over for a change.” He turned his head only then, their eyes meeting briefly, and as Thranduil smiled warmly at Bard, he felt a strange tug in his chest. Thranduil was quite a character, appearing stoic and cold at first, but in truth, he was warm and kind and very hospitable.

“No, not awful”, Bard said, resting his arms on his knees as he dropped his chin on them. He was looking out over the fountain and the path, seeing his children approach in the distance already. Thranduil had noticed them as well. “Everything but awful”, Bard said, which had Thranduil turn his head in a slight surprise. “I hope you get better soon”, Bard added with a soft sigh.

Thranduil dropped his hand on Bard’s shoulder and leant a little closer. “I definitely will”, he said, sounding resolved, as if he had any control over his own disease. “So you better stay on the lookout for a job”, Thranduil continued. “Unless the school suddenly gets super rich again”, Thranduil remarked. “Then they’d be able to hire you for real.” He stood up and reached out his hand to help Bard get up, something the brunet didn’t need, but still accepted.

He had no idea how someone could be so cold and so warm at the same time. It was in his personality, but it reflected on his skin as well. The moment their hands touched, Bard felt how cold Thranduil’s were, but as his grip strengthened briefly, it was as if a warmth washed through Bard that renewed his energy. Thranduil already let go of his hand. “There they are”, he called out for the children, as three pairs of bewildered, impressed eyes were focused on him.

Bard got up as well. “Come here”, he gestured at his children. “Children, this is Thranduil. Thranduil, these are my children. Sigrid’s the eldest, then we have Bain, and my little sprout is Tilda.” The three children smiled at him, a gesture Thranduil returned, though he was less overwhelmed than they were.

“Come on in”, Thranduil urged them. When they walked into the dining hall, Thranduil introduced them to his own ‘sprout’, though Legolas would probably threaten him with strangulation if he ever referred to him like that. At least in public. “This is my son, Legolas. Legolas, these are Tilda, Bain and Sigrid, Bard’s three wonderful children.” Legolas made a little noise, not exactly comfortable with his dad doing dad things, but that made four of them at least. “Please, sit down”, Thranduil urged them. “And don’t hold back on the food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I marvel how Nature could ever find space  
> For so many strange contrasts in one human face:  
> There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom  
> And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. 
> 
> There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;  
> Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain  
> Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,  
> Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease. 
> 
> There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,  
> And attention full ten times as much as there needs;  
> Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;  
> And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. 
> 
> There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare  
> Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,  
> There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,  
> Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. 
> 
> This picture from nature may seem to depart,  
> Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;  
> And I for five centuries right gladly would be  
> Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.


	7. The Light of Other Days

“Da, can we go back someday?” It wasn’t a question Bard had expected, truth be told, but neither was it one that came as a surprise. The house left quite the impression after all, not unlike its owner, Thranduil, and even Legolas, who had much of his father’s traits.

What was more unexpected was how well Bain and Legolas got along. When finding out Legolas took part in archery lessons, Bain had begged him to show what he could do. Once Legolas had given in, apparently feeling a little awkward but otherwise quite flattered, the girls had joined them outside to watch, cheering as Legolas hit every mark. Bain had declared he wished to take up archery lessons as well when they came inside, something that had made Thranduil laugh whole-heartedly. Bard however had told him later there wasn’t any money for that, unfortunately.

“Please, da?” Bain insisted now. Bard knew it was most likely also because of Legolas, slightly older than Bain, and all the more interesting for the young lad. A friend, or some sort of older brother figure had popped up in his life and he wasn’t prone on letting go anytime soon.

“I’m definitely going back”, Bard stated, rubbing his chin and wrinkling his nose a little. “Not sure if you’re going to.” Three voices of protest emerged around him, and it made him grin. “Not trying to bully you”, he assured them, dropping his arm around Bain’s shoulders and patting him on the back as he looked at his girls. “It’s just not up to me to invite you into their manor…”

They had to admit that it wasn’t their father’s choice indeed, and the pouting had Bard feel a little guilty. “Well, I think Thranduil liked the three of you, so I’m sure he’d love to have you over again.” It drew a big smile on Tilda’s face, and Sigrid too seemed consoled, though Bain was less convinced. Bard understood that; for to Bain it was perhaps the most important to return there out of the three of them. “In any case it won’t stop us from inviting them”, Bard added as if it were but a minor thing that required little attention, but the three pairs of eyes were once again focused on him.

“Great idea, da!” Sigrid exclaimed. “On Friday evening, perhaps? Then I can clean the house a little still!” Bard wanted to object, thinking Friday was a little early, but the three already ran off to clean their rooms, making sure everything was perfect by then. They wanted to impress Thranduil as much as he’d impressed them, it seemed. It made him grin and shake his head a little.

At least his wife had done something good in her life, he thought to himself as he looked at their children. But truth be told, he’d long since given up blaming her. He only hoped she was happy with her new life and never showed her face again to disrupt theirs. “Go ahead”, he told his children, not having the heart to take away their excitement. “I’m going upstairs to read a little.”

“You’re always reading and working, da”, Sigrid said. She was right, of course. But tonight Bard doubted he would read anything that was important for him as a teacher. He walked upstairs, slipping the leather-bound book out of his coat. He recalled Thranduil’s face as he’d asked if he could borrow it, immediately promising to take good care of it. He understood it was something dear to the man’s heart, but Thranduil had not seen a problem in that request.

He’d smiled, and assured Bard that he’d not doubted for a second that he’d take good care of books. He seemed to have contemplated his answer still, however, and took his time to finally come to the conclusion that Bard could borrow the book, if only he promised to return it by the weekend, for, as Thranduil had stated it, his heart could not bear to be parted with it for a time longer than that. It had seemed strange to Bard, but nevertheless touching. Thranduil had loved his father dearly, and perhaps that book was a memory that cut deeper than Bard could imagine.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil stood still before the portrait of his father. It had been long since damaged, and yet he could not bear the thought of having it taken out of the office he worked in. He’d not moved a single book off the shelves since that dreadful night. He remembered but moments of it, flashes, like lightning strikes. He combed his long fingers through his hair, glancing at his hand afterwards. Long strands of moonlight-blond hair were tangled around his skin.

The night had been still, like this one. The moon higher in the sky, Thranduil recalled. It had been brighter too. The wind was softly blowing through the green leaves, calm and quiet. A summer’s night, when his father’s friend had come over for dinner as he often did. They’d taken to the office after Oropher had put Thranduil to bed. He’d not been ten years of age that day, though his birthday had come not long after. It had not been celebrated that year.

His fingers slid over the wooden chair, following the carved out curls before he sat down on it. How would it have felt for his father, he wondered. It had been a heavy thud that woke him up, and scared as he was, he’d gone over to his father’s office. Father would protect him from burglars. But the noise had come again, this time from his father’s office.

He could feel the cold creep over him, and realized he was trembling. Pathetic, he thought to himself as he got up again. He wanted to banish those memories out of his mind again, for they made his heart rage and panic well up. He couldn’t get out of reliving them. He clenched onto the wooden armrests and closed his eyes.

The decorative sword flashed past his face, but the burglars seemed all but impressed by his father’s valiant efforts to fend them off. And he couldn’t; there were simply too many of them. Thranduil stood in the opening of the door, clinging onto the doorpost. He must’ve been quite the sight, staring at his father’s friend.

A tall man he’d been, but that night he looked frail and small, lying on his back. His silver-white hair had been drenched in red, and his cool grey eyes caught onto Thranduil’s blue ones. He swore he could see the man speak to him in his last moments, and though he did not hear his words, he knew he’d told him to run. But he didn’t. Not when the sword was forced out of his father’s hand, not when he was smacked into the wooden panel.

Thranduil’s eyes flung open. His breathing was irregular and difficult, but he couldn’t stop remembering now. His eyes trailed to the crack in the wood, the blood smeared around it. Too old, decades by now. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing and trying to keep it regular, healthy. It didn’t work.

The dark eyes of the murderer met his own. They were brown, like the forest. His thick, woollen beard didn’t help to make him look any kinder. “Shit, there’s a kid here”, his heavy voice hissed out to his mates. “Fuck’s sake, he must’ve seen everything.”

“A-ada”, Thranduil’s shrill voice peeped. The men didn’t even try to stop him from going over to the motionless body of the man they’d killed. The small hands pressed onto the white cheeks of an already pale man. “Ada?” Thranduil repeated, confused as to why his father didn’t respond. There was a gap then, a gap in his memories.

Only vague bits remained, the bearded man having picked him up and carried him out of there. Talking to the police, but he’d been in too much of a shock. He’d been taken to a distant relative, who’d taken him in. Again he’d spoken to the police, and this time he was of more help, able to describe the man, and later on they’d identified him.

It wasn’t until nearly fifteen years later that Thranduil had returned to the estate that had been his home, only to find everything exactly the same as they’d left it, with the exception of more rot, faded paint, mould and of course dust, at least for the house. The garden was more like a wilderness than ever, and it still was, somewhat, but Legolas had loved it that way.

Thranduil got up, trembling on his legs. He needed to properly deal with these kind of memories, but he couldn’t. By the time he arrived in his chambers, his breathing had at least calmed down, but his mind had not. It was still in heavy turmoil. A glance at the clock made him realize it was already far past eleven. Legolas was probably asleep already, free of the torment of these kinds of thoughts.

His fingertips brushed over the horn of the telephone that stood upon his nightstand. He felt the urge to talk to him, but it was late, and he really shouldn’t… He took the horn and pressed it against his cheek. He picked up the slip of paper on which Bard’s number was written down. It was too dark to read it, and he needed his glasses for that too.

It felt like being a blind man, feeling around the surface of his nightstand in order to find his glasses. He slipped them onto his nose after lighting the lamp. He dialled the number, though before pressing the last digit, he hesitated a little again, his finger aimlessly hovering over the button before pressing it.

The phone rang a few times, and Thranduil almost wanted to end the call, when suddenly a familiar soft yet rather deep voice asked: “Hello?” Bard sounded a little bit confused, wondering who called him this late in the evening. He’d not gone to bed, truth be told, but still. It was late, and there was something like the unspoken rule of not calling people in the middle of the night.

“Eh, I’m sorry for calling you this late”, Thranduil’s voice sounded on the other side of the line, which made Bard sit up a little bit more. He sounded distresses, somehow, as if he’d just returned from a car accident that had put him into shock. “I didn’t know who to call else”, Thranduil apologized again, until Bard reassured him it was fine.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t sleeping yet”, he assured Thranduil. “What’s wrong? You sound eh, a little upset.” A silence slumbered between the two of them, and Bard was briefly uncertain whether he’d been right in his assumption, or that perhaps there was something else on Thranduil’s mind that had nothing to do with his feelings.

“You’re right”, Thranduil’s voice suddenly broke that eerie silence. “I’ve… got a few… troubles.” He clearly had no idea how to put it, and the more he spoke, the more Bard realized this call had been something of a whim, unprepared and perhaps something Thranduil was regretting at the very moment he was stammering.

“You don’t have to explain”, Bard softly said. “Can’t sleep, thoughts keeping you up. I’ve been there, too.” The silence on the other side of the line almost sounded like relief, but of course he couldn’t be entirely sure. “I… I read a poem of your father’s earlier today”, Bard gently broke the silence then. “I thought it incredibly lovely. Wait, let me read it to you.”

Thranduil was quietly listening to the soft voice reciting the words all too familiar to him. It brought memories of his father back, but good ones. Where he sat on the couch and his father read to him in that warm, soft voice of his. Truth be told, Thranduil could barely recall his face, if it weren’t for the portrait, he’d have forgotten it altogether. It’d been long. Too long. When Bard finished, Thranduil remained quiet for but a moment, before he whispered: “Thank you.”

“I should thank you”, Bard replied. “These poems… they’re just amazing. I don’t know how your father did it, but he pulls just the right strings to make the emotions pour out of his words. It’s- I don’t know how to say it, except maybe it’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oft, in the stilly night,  
> Ere slumber's chain has bound me,  
> Fond Memory brings the light  
> Of other days around me:  
> The smiles, the tears  
> Of boyhood's years,  
> The words of love then spoken;  
> The eyes that shone,  
> Now dimm'd and gone,  
> The cheerful hearts now broken!  
> Thus, in the stilly night,  
> Ere slumber's chain has bound me,  
> Sad Memory brings the light  
> Of other days around me.
> 
> When I remember all  
> The friends, so link'd together,  
> I've seen around me fall  
> Like leaves in wintry weather,  
> I feel like one  
> Who treads alone  
> Some banquet-hall deserted,  
> Whose lights are fled,  
> Whose garlands dead,  
> And all but he departed!  
> Thus, in the stilly night,  
> Ere slumber's chain has bound me.  
> Sad Memory brings the light  
> Of other days around me.


	8. The Arrow and the Song

Bard couldn’t get up. It was already way past nine in the morning, and he should get up to go through the notes Thranduil had given him, but last night’s phone call had tired him out. He was sure Thranduil too was still resting. They’d talked about everything and nothing at the same time, or at least Bard had. Thranduil had mostly listened quietly, but Bard had had the impression that that was exactly what the man needed, to hear things from him and to just listen, let his mind be carried by the current of his words.

It was strange, that feeling of being listened to as if he was the only one that had interesting things to say, as if it mattered, even though he’d spoken of things with little real substance, especially for a man like Thranduil. What would he care about the colour of the wallpaper Bard wished to choose for when he’d renovate the living room once they had money? Or a story where Bard had fallen through a chair more than twenty years ago?

But it had mattered, and that was something Bard had not experienced since a long time. There was after all the difference between speaking to a class, where pupils had no one else to get their information from but you, speaking to your children, since they were raised to listen – though not raised to always agree – and especially Bard’s children held him in high esteem, as he did them. They were his anchor after all, making sure he did not drift off to lose his way, and he was their ship, granting them a safe passage of the turbulent sea that life could be.

But it had mattered, and that was something that made Bard’s heart jump a little. He realized Thranduil was more than a colleague, more than just someone granting him a job opportunity in the close future. He was a friend.

The realization made him strangely skittish and somewhat eager to return. He suddenly tossed the heavy sheets off and crawled out of the bed. His hair was a mess and he needed to trim his beard, best to take a shower as well. He let the water run, allowing it to heat up for a moment for he refused to get under a cold shower. That sort of waking up was a little too harsh, even for him.

Since he was always short on time, Bard had once made a small instalment in the shower: a mirror and a small tableau where he could put his shaving gear. Nowadays he shaved and brushed his teeth in the shower, making sure he was ready in about ten to fifteen minutes with all three of those things. Sure, it had its downsides, like the taste of soap and toothpaste combined, or his vision blurring because of the water running over his face.

He found himself briefly wondering if Thranduil used such methods to wash up as well, but suddenly became rather flustered and embarrassed when he realized what exactly he was thinking of. Not that his intentions or even thoughts had been in any way foul, but it felt strange, weird to think of Thranduil in such a vulnerable, bared way.

Bard quickly got dressed. He was late already, and though Thranduil was probably even more tired, and maybe still sleeping, he at least had the advantage that he did not have to travel to his own house. And if he was far too late, Bard knew he’d have to drive quickly. Which then again would make him sweaty, for he did everything by bike – cars weren’t cheap after all, let alone all the bullshit that came along with having one. But he prided himself in it too, for he was very aware of the things that destroyed nature, and tried to pay as much attention to it as he could.

Again he caught himself wondering if Thranduil too thought nature mattered so much. Only natural to find more common ground with who was perhaps the only friend he’d have in a long time, yet it made Bard feel slightly obsessed, although rationally speaking he was not.

When he reached out for the intercom, he realized the gate was already slightly opened and a note stuck to it, in a neat handwriting that looked as if it had been printed by a computer. The letters were all terribly regular and slightly italicized, but also rather thin and long. Bard pulled it off the gate and rose it to his face. His eyesight wasn’t that great anymore either. “I’m in the garden. Please close the gate”, it read.

“The garden”, Bard muttered under his breath. “You mean the bloody forest? The fucking ‘garden’. Can you be any less specific?” He walked in, and closed the gate behind him, bothered by the pending search that awaited him. Just then, a thud behind him had him nearly jump up. “What the…” Bard started, but when he turned around he’d see an archery target, and an arrow of which the shaft was still trembling from impact.

Right. Archery practice. Bard figured Thranduil was accompanying Legolas, since he knew the latter was the archer of the two. He walked towards the direction the arrow must’ve come from – simple really, just follow it in the opposite direction – and found Legolas with his bow in hand, Thranduil standing next to him with his arms crossed over his chest. Their eyes briefly met, and Thranduil rose his hand as a greeting, but he didn’t interrupt his speaking to Legolas.

“… so try that next time you aim. It should help you steady your chances of hitting the target where you want it.” He looked up at Bard again, but noticed right away Bard was looking at Legolas, who by now had drawn again. Thranduil found it strange, the way Bard looked at his son like that, but he did not address it.

“Your position is good, but you’re putting too much strain on your shoulder”, Bard suddenly broke his silence. “Let me… Don’t get startled, I’m going to touch you to correct your position.” He carefully reached out, his eyes locking onto Thranduil’s, awaiting his permission to touch Legolas, not because Legolas wasn’t old enough to make that out for himself, but as a form of courtesy.

He readjusted Legolas’ form, just slightly, but enough to make a difference. “You should feel less strain on your shoulder now”, Bard stated. “Which in turn will make your aim steadier, and will tire your arms less from firing.” He backed away and crossed his arms, awaiting Legolas’ next shot. “Lo and behold!” Bard called out when the arrow perfectly hit its target. It made Thranduil laugh for a moment, but he turned away his face and therefore his grin.

 

* * *

 

“Didn’t know you were that good an archer”, Thranduil complimented Bard as they were walking the path that lead to the house, side by side. “You must have some sort of history with the sport”, he mused, clearly thinking of the way Bard would look when holding a bow.

“Yeah, I used to do a lot of archery”, Bard admitted. “Though different kind.” When he saw Thranduil cocking his head to the side, nonverbally asking for more of an explanation, he clarified: “I used longbows, rather than composite. More stationary archery but I liked the power and the distance of the bows more.”

“It’s true there is a certain… gravitation in the attributes of a longbow”, Thranduil admitted. “Do you consider yourself to be good at it?” he wanted to know. Bard gave that question a thought, a rather long one at that. It wasn’t an easy question: yes could mean arrogance, no could mean Thranduil thought of him as incompetent.

“I couldn’t rightly say”, Bard decided to pick the safest route. “My teacher was often frustrated that I’d eh… ‘freestyle’, so to speak. I liked exploring my limits, and consequently that of my weapon, so I suppose I’m not that great of an archer in my teacher’s point of view, but personally I think that I’ve accomplished something pretty important during my lessons: having fun and exploring what I myself am capable of.” He’d bullshitted his way out of it, yet at the same time, nothing of what he’d said had been a lie. And Thranduil seemed to have picked up on that.

“Admirable”, Thranduil judged after a brief silence, as they’d arrived at the front door. Bard returned the compliment with a curious glance, unsure what Thranduil thought so admirable. The blond one picked up on the confusion, and clarified: “Rarely have I met a man so free-spirited in this day and age as you are, mellon nîn.”

“Eh, thanks, I guess”, Bard hesitantly accepted the compliment, though he wasn’t too sure it was right. “I’m sorry for my curiosity”, he then breached another subject “but I noticed you often speak… differently.” Thranduil had stopped in his movements, his hands folded on his back and his greyish blue eyes focusing on Bard’s dark ones, politely awaiting Bard’s actual question. “What… Where does it come from and what does… ‘melon’ mean, except the fruit?”

Thranduil chuckled all of a sudden. “It is my native language”, he explained. “My father’s family is, as I explained, related to foreign royalty. Our country doesn’t even exist anymore, but our language survived. And… ‘mellon nîn’ means ‘my friend’.” That knowledge warmed Bard’s heart; not only he considered Thranduil more a friend than anything, but that feeling was mutual.

“It’s… amazing to know there’s something like that”, Bard admitted. “I’ve never heard of anything the like before. Perhaps sometime you can teach me more about you… That is, your people, and your culture.”

Thranduil’s smile had slightly faded, but it was still there, clear as day. “Why of course”, he agreed. “But today, we should not tally over such trivial matters. Time is limited, and so is my patience. We should get to our work, and see that you will be able to take my place. There are only two weeks left, after all.”

Bard didn’t really want to interrupt any of this, but he too realized there was little choice. This time however Thranduil decided not to go to his father’s old office, and though he didn’t explain to Bard why, Bard figured it had to do with what had happened the night before. “You should first and foremost read through this”, Thranduil stated. “These are the preparations I used last year for the lessons you are to teach during your first week.”

The papers were neatly printed out, but nevertheless, Thranduil had made many notes on the side, which showed Bard that after all these years he still revisited his methods of teaching. That he could find the time to do such things, and the energy. Bard wondered if Thranduil could work full time like this. Most likely he couldn’t; being a teacher was after all an underpaid and overworked job. Thinking like that had him wonder why he even liked doing it.

As Bard was reading through the notes, Thranduil leant against the windowsill, staring outside. He was softly humming a gentle tune, and while Bard enjoyed it, it distracted him too. “What is that song?” he eventually asked, causing Thranduil to look over his shoulder.

“I apologize, it was not my intention to interrupt your reading”, Thranduil said, lowering his chin to his chest as some sign of humility. But Bard shook his head.

“No, no, don’t worry about it”, he assured Thranduil. “It’s just really beautiful, and I was wondering if there’s… y’know, not more to it?” This had Thranduil smile faintly, and the blond one nodded slowly.

“There is”, he said. “It is a long song, so I shan’t bother you with all of it”, he stated. “But I could give you a verse or two.” Bard agreed. He understood they could not waste too much time, but was too eager to wait until they actually did have the time. Thranduil continued to hum what seemed to be a verse, but then the words rolled over his lips.

 

                “From helm to sea they saw him leap,

                As arrow from the string

                And dive into the water deep,

                As mew upon the wing.

 

                The wind was in his flowing hair,

                The foam about him shone;

                Afar they saw him strong and fair

                Go riding like a swan.”

 

It was there Thranduil stopped the song, though Bard knew there was much more. The verses reminded him of none other than Thranduil himself, of course, though he dared not express that thought. “It was beautiful, the song, and you singing it”, he admitted, slightly flustered. The comment had Thranduil quietly looking away, yet not without a tender smile. “Pray tell me what it’s called?” Bard asked.

“It is a legend of old, the song of Nimrodel”, Thranduil responded. “My father used to sing verses of it before he put me to sleep.” That explained why it stuck so well in Thranduil’s memory. “These two… they reminded me of him.” So it wasn’t only Bard that saw the link between the song’s beautiful creature and the one he had right in front of him.

“Aye, I can see why”, Bard said, his voice a strangely hoarse whisper. Thranduil jerked his head up, and his eyes locked with Bard’s. They were like crystal mirrors reflecting the strange feeling that Bard felt in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shot an arrow into the air,  
> It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
> For, so swiftly it flew, the sight  
> Could not follow it in its flight.
> 
> I breathed a song into the air,  
> It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
> For who has sight so keen and strong,  
> That it can follow the flight of song?
> 
> Long, long afterward, in an oak  
> I found the arrow, still unbroke;  
> And the song, from beginning to end,  
> I found again in the heart of a friend.


	9. The Lake

Thranduil quickly turned his face away again. The odd connection that their gazes had had, had made him experience a strange feeling in his stomach. He knew very well what it was, for it had all but been the first time, but he knew he could not even think of it. There was a risk ahead of them if they chose to pursue anything the like.

Bard too dragged his eyes away from the blond man. He wasn’t sure if Thranduil understood what the crossing of their gazes had meant for him, but he didn’t dare ask. They had a tender friendship, but it was too brittle to push forward and ask for anything else than that. He was fidgeting and fumbling for a bit, but then recalled that there was something else he could pretend to be paying attention to: his work.

He was divulging himself in the paperwork, reading and taking notes. It felt strange, knowing so much about the girls that Thranduil taught, even though he’d seen them only once – at least in reality. Thranduil had, after all, given him a list of names with pictures, so Bard could study their faces a little already before he’d be ‘thrown before the lions’, as Thranduil so quaintly put it.

Thranduil on the other hand did not have work to keep his mind busy. He got up instead. “I’m going to make some tea”, he warned Bard. “I’ll bring you a cup as well.” Bard looked up, though only briefly, nodded and went back to work. He couldn’t afford too much distractions; once he was working, he was working. He didn’t even see Thranduil’s straight back or his long blond hair falling so gracefully down his shoulders as the man left the room. What finally made him look up was the door shutting behind him.

Bard put down his pen and a sigh escaped his lips. He dug his fingers through his dark brown hair. Once, Thranduil had called it ‘confused hair’, because it was a mixture between waves and curls. The memory of it brought a smile back to Bard’s lips. People all had their own way of speaking, but whenever Thranduil talked, it was as if he was writing poetry. He had quaint ways of putting things, and few people could talk like him and still sound natural. Bard knew if he’d try, it’d sound like he was putting up an air.

And that was exactly what some people thought Thranduil did. It was perhaps what Bard had thought at first, when he’d met Thranduil in that school. He remembered his strong but graceful stride, like a measured and countless times practiced dance, his prying gaze and his calculated demands. It wasn’t until he accepted the unspoken yet formal invitation of Thranduil to get to know him better that Bard had realized he was like a lake.

At first, there was a sense of mesmerizing distant beauty, a sense of serenity and calm, and mystery. But when you reach out your fingertips and touch the surface, wrinkles will appear, and the vast mirror that was the surface would reflect not reality anymore, but showed depths hidden from people’s eyes.

Yet Bard didn’t want to stay on the surface. He wanted to wade through the water and reach its deepest point. He knew the dangers that could bring, the risk it entailed. He could drown, after all, if he forgot where the shore was, if he forgot how to swim, for the lake itself would not be able to save him.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil was peeling the apple and dropped the peels in the nearly boiling water. He liked the fruity taste it gave, and he enjoyed brewing his tea in a manner that distinguished it from other teas; fresh and recognizable. He wanted to distinguish the tea’s ingredients, seeing the leaves float around in the water and discard their colour.

He placed the cups on the platter. Other than that, two spoons, he counted. Perhaps Legolas would appreciate a cup too? He usually liked tea, so Thranduil decided to prepare one for him too. He put a sift on the cup before pouring the tea, making sure the tea itself remained unspoiled. He carried the platter to his son’s room and pushed the door open with his elbow.

Legolas was studying. Always a busy bee, always focused on what lies ahead. Thranduil placed the cup on his desk, and it was only then Legolas looked up. Their eyes briefly crossed. “Thanks, ada”, Legolas said, picking up the cup. He smelled the fresh aroma, and took a sip. It was still hot, and nearly had him burn his tongue. “Delicious, and hot”, Legolas concluded. “As always.”

Thranduil sat with him for a bit. He couldn’t stay long, for the tea would grow cold if he did. “I see you’re working hard”, Thranduil said, running his fingers through his son’s hair. “As always”, he added with a playful twitch of his lips. Legolas now too grew a faint smile on his face. Sometimes, fathers could actually be funny. Thranduil pressed a kiss on his forehead. “I’m proud of you.” His words made Legolas’ chest swell with pride.

“And I of you, ada”, he returned the compliment. He meant it. Sometimes he doubted Thranduil realized that Legolas inherited his ambition from him, his desire to always strive forward, despite the difficulties. “Bard’s probably waiting for his tea”, he then added with a short nod in the direction of his platter. “Don’t make him drink it when it’s cold already.”

Thranduil gave him a sly glance. “Yes, father”, he teased Legolas, but he listened nevertheless. It was a fair argument after all. Bard was working hard too, and he probably needed something to keep his mind fuelled too, some energy.

 

* * *

 

The door opening was something else that had Bard look up from the work, though his mind had not been even remotely invested in the papers in front of him. His eyes met Thranduil’s for a brief second, but he turned his attention to the tea. “Smells delicious”, he stated, though the scent had not reached him yet. Thranduil closed the door with his foot, and placed the platter on the desk Bard was working at.

“Smell and taste go hand in hand, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it has to be good tea too”, Thranduil responded. He poured a cup for Bard and offered it to him. It was adorned with bright flowers, Bard noticed. Typical posh English tableware, but he’d not expected anything else from Thranduil.

Bard tried a sip of the cup. It wasn’t as hot as it had been. “It’s perfect”, Bard’s conclusion came. “The temperature, warm but not burning.” And the aroma, the fruity taste that merged so well with what seemed to be ginger. It was a distinguished taste, one you either appreciated or didn’t, strong yet sweet at the same time. “A bit special in taste”, he mused then “but the good kind of special.” Like you, he’d wanted to add, but he quickly bit his tongue before the words escaped him.

His compliments had drawn yet another smile on Thranduil’s lips. “Good”, he spoke. “But don’t let it take you away from your work.” Bard realized he’d yet again wasted at least ten minutes daydreaming, and with a sigh, he got back to reading, while Thranduil sat across the desk. He too was enjoying a cup of tea, but without the work that accompanied it.

Instead, he was observing Bard rather closely. He realized the man was squinting every time he tried to read. “You don’t see very well?” Thranduil suddenly asked. It had Bard look up, but before the brunet could answer, Thranduil reached out his glasses. “They’re for reading”, Thranduil said. “So they’re not very strong, but perhaps they can be of a help to you.”

Bard tried them on. “It does help”, he remarked. “Not all the way, but it makes a big difference. Thanks.” Thranduil waved his gratitude away, thinking nothing of the gesture. Bard was kind, and his kindness was just being repaid.

Sometimes when he looked at Bard, Thranduil thought to himself, he had to think of the old paintings that decorated the corridors and hallways of his manor. The ones of a moonlit lake in front of an old castle ruin. No matter how much the water battered against the walls of a castle, it remained standing through the centuries. Bard felt like those castle walls: misfortune had tried to drag him down countless times, and yet he was still standing.

The massive drum towers that were to protect the heart of the castle, or in Bard’s case, his children. He was a sanctuary, a place of peace in times of war. He was their walls, protecting them from the dangers of the outside, but in each wall there was a window, so that despite the protection, there was still the freedom of the surrounding nature.

But he wasn’t like one of those grey castles that had crumbled over time. He was one of those made in sandstone, slightly more brittle, but less coarse. The kind of stone that felt rough under your touches, but when afterwards you felt your skin, it’d be soft.

“Something wrong?” The sudden voice broke through the silence, and Thranduil’s thoughts were brought back to reality. He noticed Bard was looking at him a bit oddly. A brief nod gave Bard the answer he was looking for.

“Why do you ask?” Thranduil inquired, taking another sip of his tea. It had grown lukewarm, he noticed, and the taste was fainter than before. It wasn’t as good this way. He put down the cup, once more looking up at Bard, but the strange expression on the man’s face had not waned.

“You were staring at me all oddly”, Bard confessed after a short silence. He clearly didn’t know what to make of it, but his honesty had Thranduil impressed. Few dared say something like that out loud after all.

“I was?” he asked. “I apologize, I had no intent of making you uncomfortable. I was merely sunken deep into my thoughts.” He brushed it off as if Bard had nothing to do with the things he’d been thinking of, as if it were a mere coincidence that he’d been looking in Bard’s direction, looking but not seeing.

“It’s okay, I guess”, Bard said, not entirely convinced. Thranduil made not much of it, but Bard felt that his words were but half of the truth. Yet he chose not to pry. Moments before, he’d already felt rather strange in Thranduil’s proximity, and he did not wish to repeat that kind of tension growing between them, for he feared it would put them under a pressure neither of them needed in their lives right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In spring of youth it was my lot  
> To haunt of the wide world a spot  
> The which I could not love the less--  
> So lovely was the loneliness  
> Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,  
> And the tall pines that towered around.
> 
> But when the Night had thrown her pall  
> Upon that spot, as upon all,  
> And the mystic wind went by  
> Murmuring in melody--  
> Then--ah then I would awake  
> To the terror of the lone lake.
> 
> Yet that terror was not fright,  
> But a tremulous delight--  
> A feeling not the jewelled mine  
> Could teach or bribe me to define--  
> Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
> 
> Death was in that poisonous wave,  
> And in its gulf a fitting grave  
> For him who thence could solace bring  
> To his lone imagining--  
> Whose solitary soul could make  
> An Eden of that dim lake


	10. Chapter 10: A Shadow

The phone kept ringing. He wanted to turn around and grab his pillow, push it on top of his head so he didn’t have to listen to the obnoxious sound. It could be important, though. Bard dragged himself to the telephone and picked up. “Hello, Bard speaking”, he muttered in his still sleepy voice. He was running his fingers through his hair, combing it and dragging it out of his face – mornings always involved hair-eating for some reason.

“Good morning, Mr Bowman”, the voice of principal The White sounded on the other side of the line. “I hope I am not calling you at an inconvenient time.” After Bard had assured him he hadn’t, but secretly thought he had, the man continued with: “We have a temporary job offer for you available and would like to continue our earlier talks.”

No doubt Thranduil had kept his word and recommended they’d hire him, though it should’ve at least lasted a little longer, he realized. Where joy and relief for his financial situation should’ve been, there was worry. “Eh, yes, of course”, he rushed to say, realizing he’d left the man hanging on the other side of the line. “When would be a good time?”

As soon as they’d set a date and cordially said their goodbyes, Bard tossed the phone on the hook, only to quickly rip it out again and hurriedly dialled Thranduil’s number. The worry held his heart in a cold iron grip. Something had happened to him, it kept ringing in his mind, pounding against the inside of his skull as if it were a cage in which he was trapped and needed to break out of.

When the phone was picked up, Bard could feel a sudden weight drop off his shoulders. He wanted to let a waterfall of cusses out at Thranduil for making him worry so much, but before he could even utter a single vowel, the voice on the other side sounded. “Amon Lac residence, Legolas speaking.” His tone was flat and tired, and where Bard had felt relief a moment before, the iron maiden of worry quickly wrapped itself around him again.

“It- it’s Bard here”, he stammered, a little uneasy. “Eh, is Thranduil around, perchance?” But the brief silence on the other side made his cage only tighter.

“He’s unavailable right now”, Legolas responded, and Bard could hear a soft quiver in his voice. Something was amiss, he knew for sure now, and Legolas did not wish to speak of it, or perhaps could not. Bard was briefly lowering the horn, not sure what to do, before he brought it back to his face. He was hesitant, not sure what to do now.

Yet suddenly he asked: “Are you alright, Legolas?” The question seemed to have surprised the young man on the other line, judging by the little sound he made.

“I am, I am”, Legolas rushed to assure Bard, but the quickness of his reply hadn’t accounted for the calm he’d maintained earlier, and Bard could hear more clearly now that Legolas was not alright, despite his claims.

A soft sigh escaped Bard’s lips. He’d not taken a moment to worry about Legolas, but hearing his voice, and the way the young man was trying so hard not to show what he was feeling – just like his father sometimes, Bard recalled their first encounter in the school – made him almost feel guilty. There was a feeling of responsibility for the teenager welling up in Bard’s chest.

“Is it okay if I drop by in an hour?” Bard asked Legolas carefully.

“Father’s not available”, Legolas repeated, this time sounding a little more confused. Had Bard already forgotten that Thranduil could not be spoken to? For a teacher, such a bad memory wasn’t a great sign.

“So you said”, Bard agreed. “But I’d not be coming for him. If he’s not around, you’re probably all on your own.” He didn’t want to make it seem like Legolas was weak or lonely and needed him to be around, though. “Taking care of such a big house all by yourself can’t be an easy thing.”

“Will you bring Tilda, Sigrid and Bain?” Legolas wanted to know. Bard figured it was because he would like the company, even though Legolas added that he needed to know how many people he should prepare tea for. By the time Bard hung up again, he noticed his three children already dressed and ready to go.

“Eavesdropping?” he asked them with a little frown. “Don’t rush me, I’m not even dressed yet.” He was only wearing his pyjama trousers after all. “Go make sure your beds are made and pack your homework, we’re probably not leaving early and I don’t want you to neglect school.”

“The teacher in da woke up again”, Bain complained as he scurried off to his bedroom again. Bard scratched his lower back, shaking his head a little, before he went to get a long, hot shower. He washed his hair, but could not be bothered to comb it – his children were waiting eagerly for them to get going, after all.

By the time he was entirely done, Sigrid had made sure her bedroom was presentable and the kitchen clean. Bain had done the effort to hide the mess in his room and Tilda was trying to choose which of her stuffed animals she would bring. Bard suggested she’d take her small elk, because she could play with it under the trees of Amon Lac.

 

* * *

 

The autumn mist enveloped the estate with an air of mystery. Bard imagined this was what writers of gothic novels were imagining when they described the impressive manors in which supernatural murders developed. He dropped his hand on Tilda’s shoulder and tugged her against his side. “It’ll be warmer inside”, he promised her when he noticed she was shivering a little.

Never had the road to the door seemed so long. It was Legolas who opened the door, and right away urged them to try and be a bit quiet. “Father’s sleeping upstairs, but I left the door to his room open in case he needs something”, he explained quietly. “I boiled some water for tea”, he then continued, gesturing at a teapot and some cups that were waiting for them. “It’s probably not as good as my father makes it”, Legolas then apologized.

He was a good child, Bard knew. “Thanks, tea would be nice”, he accepted the invitation. While Legolas was pouring the tea, Bard hung up his coat and those of his children. Bain decided to help out Legolas. He looked up to him greatly, and would try to be around him whenever he could. “Don’t you have homework?” Bard asked as Legolas gave him the cup of tea.

“Yeah”, Legolas admitted, and though he didn’t say it, Bard knew his mind was in no state to focus on the work. He gave Legolas a short nod and thanked him for the tea. When he took a sip, he had to be honest that the tea was indeed not as good as the one Thranduil made, but that was mostly because Thranduil made the tea fresh, and this one was made with teabags.

Nevertheless, it was good tea. “The tea is great, thanks”, Bard said as he put the cup down again. “I suggest the four of you first get to your homework.” He silenced the protests that were arising from his children already by raising his hand. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner you can do what you want”, he remarked. “And if you all work together, you can help each other out.” Not only that, but he thought the presence of his children would help Legolas focus, and since he was there, he could take care of whatever Thranduil needed.

When the four of them had installed themselves around the massive wooden dinner table, each with their cup of tea and a biscuit, Bard decided to go upstairs and check on Thranduil. The room was darkened by the heavy curtains, but there was enough light from the corridor to discern the various shapes of the furniture, though little more than that could be seen.

He made his way through the room, carefully so not to walk into anything and cause Thranduil to wake up. When he arrived at the bed, he leant down to look at Thranduil’s sleeping face. But what he saw almost made him call out so loudly he’d wake up Thranduil. He quickly wrapped his hand in front of his mouth to subdue whatever noise he’d wished to make.

Paler and thinner than ever, Thranduil was almost reduced to a corpse. If it weren’t for the shallow, difficult breathing, Bard would’ve thought he was dead. Carefully he reached out and brushed some of the long, blonde hair out of Thranduil’s face, his fingertips briefly caressing the skin of the man’s cheekbones. So cold.

Bard moved to the end of the bed and got another few blankets from the chest that stood there, covering Thranduil with them. He checked whether the windows were closed, but they were. A soft cuss escaped his lips. This was sudden, too sudden, and he couldn’t help but ask himself why. Why had Thranduil not said anything? Why had he not seen this coming? He should’ve been able to do something.

He went downstairs and told the children he would be with Thranduil, so that if they needed him for anything at all, they knew where to find him. He brought a chair to Thranduil’s bed then and sat next to him, slightly leant forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands folded together hanging in between his legs.

 

* * *

 

Hours had passed before that little noise sounded. Bard rose his head and saw the movement in front of him. Thranduil’s arm reached out a little, grabbing onto the mattress below as the man pushed his head up to look at the figure in front of him. “Bard?” his raspy voice sounded, raddled with sleep and confusion. When he’d gone to bed, Bard had not been there after all, and Bard realized that it might not be terribly comfortable waking up to a man that didn’t live in your house sitting and staring at you sleeping.

“Sorry for intruding”, Bard apologized sincerely, afraid that he might have startled Thranduil, or made him uncomfortable. He noticed Thranduil was struggling with the heavy blankets that covered him, trying to sit up straight, and reached out to take some of the weight off him.

“Thanks”, Thranduil said when he sat up. He was out of breath. “I’m glad you’re here.” Bard had not expected to hear those words, but even less so he’d expected the effect they had on him. He wanted to wrap his arms around Thranduil and hold him against his chest, protecting him from whatever horrible things were befalling him. But he knew that he could not do anything about what Thranduil was facing, and it made him feel so powerless and weak. It frustrated him.

“I got a call this morning”, Bard explained how he’d figured it out. “From the school”, he quickly clarified when he noticed Thranduil’s questioning frown. “So I realized something must be wrong, and I rung up the house. Legolas sounded a bit upset, though he tried to hide it. I nearly fell for it. But not quite.”

That drew a smile on Thranduil’s lips. “Many a man would not have realized”, he stated. “Legolas is good at hiding what he feels.” Bard didn’t really know what Thranduil was trying to say with that, but Thranduil did not elaborate to clarify. He expected Bard to realize on his own that he knew Legolas better than any other stranger had ever come to know him, and that Legolas could not deceive Bard, just as he could not deceive his father either.

“I’m sorry for worrying you”, Thranduil changed the subject. “About a week ago, I did not feel so great. Legolas insisted I’d see a doctor, though it was not something very strange – it is often that I feel faint, after all. But thanks to Legolas’ persistence, my doctor decided to move treatment to an earlier date. Yesterday was the first.”

Bard listened carefully, but the worry was not waning from his face, quite on the contrary. “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this? Or that you’d have therapy?” he wanted to know. He sounded angrier than he’d intended to, but it was the frustration that welled up in him when he realized that Thranduil did not consider him important enough to tell him these things.

“Your worry now is enough reason for me not to tell you”, Thranduil sharply replied. “Amongst other things, I did not wish for you to…” His words fell silent, and he turned away his face with a frown on his brows. “Never you mind”, he spoke then. “It was a choice I made for reasons that are my own, and I do not need to apologize to you or give you any reason for my actions. They are my own.”

“Do you not trust me?” Bard responded, agitated with Thranduil’s harsh words.

“I do.” Thranduil’s words soothed Bard a little, but he knew there was more, so he did not interrupt. Yet the rest did not come. Instead, Thranduil rose from the bed, or tried to at least, for as soon as he put what little of his weight was left on his legs, he stumbled and fell. Or he would have, if it weren’t for Bard catching onto him and keeping him standing.

“I don’t know your reasons”, Bard said as he carefully guided Thranduil back to sit on the bed. “Or I don’t understand them. But I do know and understand my own, and I see that your son cannot take care of you on his own. So if you want to refuse my help out of your own pride, fine. But don’t put that kind of pressure on your son. He’s a child, for fucks’ sake, barely sixteen. He cannot do this on his own.”

Thranduil remained silent for a moment, but then freed himself from Bard’s touches. “I will accept your help, but only for Legolas’ sake”, he sternly spoke, the frown still on his face. He did not want the help Bard was offering, that much was clear. He is too prideful, Bard thought, but that surprised him. Thranduil had always been dignified, but never arrogant. And now he pushed away Bard for a reason he did not seem to wish to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said unto myself, if I were dead,  
> What would befall these children? What would be  
> Their fate, who now are looking up to me  
> For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said,  
> Would be a volume wherein I have read  
> But the first chapters, and no longer see  
> To read the rest of their dear history,  
> So full of beauty and so full of dread.  
> Be comforted; the world is very old,  
> And generations pass, as they have passed,  
> A troop of shadows moving with the sun;  
> Thousands of times has the old tale been told;  
> The world belongs to those who come the last,  
> They will find hope and strength as we have done.


	11. A Dream Within A Dream

Legolas had rarely seen his father like this, he thought as he observed him. He sat at his desk, his hand resting on the cover of a book bound in leather, solemnly staring in front of him. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. He was always cold lately, and Legolas could see why. His hair had thinned out and there was little meat on his bones left. He slept a lot, but still managed to look tired most of the time, and on top of that, it was getting colder outside.

He moved into the room, alerting his father of his presence. Thranduil looked up at Legolas and flashed a quick smile at him, withdrawing his hand from the book. “Your grandfather’s”, he told Legolas. “He used to write in it a lot.” Legolas reached out for it and sat down next to his father. His hair was tied in a braid and rested over his shoulder, inviting Thranduil to run his fingers over the unevenness.

His father’s touches did not bother Legolas. His attention however was mostly taken by the book that he held between his fingers. He recalled his father reading in it when he was younger, but never much and never aloud, like he would with other poetry. Thranduil rarely spoke of what had happened to his grandfather, for as he’d said whenever Legolas asked, it was a memory too painful to recall.

“Ada”, Legolas asked as he looked up from the first poem. Thranduil looked up at him with a questioning gaze, but did not respond otherwise. “What was your father like?” Legolas wanted to know. He didn’t wish to inquire about the painful memories, but from the words on the paper, he felt like his grandfather spoke to him.

“Calm, at all times”, Thranduil said thoughtfully. “I have never seen him lose his temper. But he wasn’t weak, quite on the contrary. He was headstrong and steadfast. Sometimes too, my mother would tell him. She called him fearless to a fault, for he never backed down.”

Legolas was silently listening to his father speak, how the memories were washing back over him and drew the faintest of genuine smiles as of late on Thranduil’s face. These words gave life to the face on the painting that hung behind them. His eyes slid over the slashes that tore the canvas apart, and his gaze did not go unnoticed by his father.

“I should take it down”, Thranduil stated. “And let this room be refurbished.” Legolas now looked at him, but then shrugged, as if it neither of it mattered.

“It’s not the most important thing right now”, Legolas considered. “You should focus on recovering. Plenty of money has to go there, and to the taxes of the house, and everything that comes along with it. We can barely manage right now, we shouldn’t be thinking of going through even more expenses right now.”

Thranduil reached out and pressed a kiss on Legolas’ forehead. Only sixteen, but already very matured, Thranduil thought. He pitied Legolas for going through so much at such a young age already. “You’re right”, he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes.

“Of course”, Legolas returned with a smile. “I have to admit, though…” Thranduil rose his head again. “I’m kind of glad that you chose Bard.”

Thranduil did not reply for a short while then. He could not tell if it was because he didn’t want to, or because he couldn’t. Maybe it was a little bit of both. He pulled his hands back and rested them in his lap, subconsciously entwining his fingers. “I’m kind of glad too”, he finally admitted. If it had to be someone, it had better be Bard than anyone else.

But his words had made Legolas jerk up his head abruptly, and the sky blue eyes were locked onto the frail figure, crowned by the furrowed brows. It made a laugh erupt from Thranduil, and however short and faint it was, it was genuine. “Look at you making that face, you’re just like your mother”, Thranduil stole the moment to tease his son. “She’d have just the same look whenever she’d…”

He grew quiet mid-sentence and averted his gaze once more from Legolas. The frown was gone from his son’s face at the mention of his mother. The pain of her death still lingered for both of them. And though perhaps speaking of it might soothe some of it, neither of them wanted to say the first word. Yet here they were, speaking of things long past and ready to open up old scars.

“Whenever she’d scold me for saying something strange”, Thranduil finished the sentence. “She’d make a face like that whenever I’d said something she could barely believe, or that she didn’t like hearing. Once, she made it when I said I was considering dying my hair a deep red.” Thranduil noticed the face Legolas was making again. “You’re doing it again”, he noticed, pointing at Legolas’ face. “I’d told her that on April Fools’”, he clarified. “I never planned on dying my hair.”

Legolas stared at his knees. It was strange for him to think of his parents as carefree and ever having been happy. He couldn’t really remember his mother other than sickly and weak, like his father now was becoming. But he’d known his father as a headstrong man so far, and he wouldn’t be able to remember him otherwise, he felt.

“Ada”, Legolas asked, carefully. He wasn’t certain whether it was a good moment to ask or not, but he doubted there would ever be a ‘good moment’ for questions like that. And since they’d already breached the topic… Why not? When Thranduil looked at him again, he continued: “What happened to grandfather?”

 

* * *

 

The heavy wooden door was still as intimidating as it had been the very first time. Bard was recalling what the office looked like on the inside, but a sudden call from inside, inviting him in, broke him away from the thoughts that were washing through his mind. He pushed open the door and closed it again behind him. Last time he was here, he’d not even known Thranduil.

“Good afternoon”, he was then greeted, words he returned right back at the sender. Bard felt uncomfortable under the presence of the principal, though he couldn’t truly pinpoint why. Mr The White was always polite and straightforward. There was nothing really that gave rise to suspicion.

Yet as their hands touched to shake, Bard felt the uneasiness creeping up on him. “Let’s get straight to business”, Mr The White suggested, something Bard eagerly agreed to. “I’ve called you here because one of our teachers has taken leave due to personal issues. Before he left, however, we had a lengthy conversation that entailed the person who is best suited to replace him.”

As expected, Thranduil had already put a ‘good word’ for Bard, but now he was facing the principal, Bard felt that there was more to just Thranduil proposing him to be a replacement. The man had, after all, a certain way to make people do exactly what he wanted. And it seemed that Mr The White was less convinced of Bard’s abilities as a teacher than he’d seemed before.

His kind words and assurance that he’d hire him were but words. If it were up to him, Bard would not have been there. It had him wonder just what Thranduil had said about him that made a man like Mr The White change his mind, and, more importantly, budge to Thranduil’s will.

“I’ll take it”, Bard said abruptly. “So long Thranduil’s absent. After that, I’ll quit.” These were clearly words that the man had not expected, for he seemed shocked to say the least. He was probably thinking that Bard wanted to make use of the opportunity to prove his worth, and make him hire him full-time even after Thranduil had returned.

But truth be told, Bard had no interest in working in a school where the principal didn’t really want him. Even more so, it’d feel wrong to abuse the position that Thranduil’s sickness provided him. Even taking it right now felt terribly vile. As he walked down those stairs, he recalled Thranduil’s measured steps, like a dance, the first time they walked there, side by side.

He stopped in his tracks and looked at the sky. It was rather grim outside, and would likely rain. But the colour reminded him of Thranduil’s gaze. He liked the calm that rested within those eyes, a calm that hid what could become a storm raging. A lake, Bard thought to himself, and it brought a smile to his lips.

 

* * *

 

At that question, Thranduil’s eyes briefly widened, but then he dropped his gaze at the wooden surface of the desk. “I…” He wanted to speak of it, yet his breath lacked him. “Let us sit elsewhere first, before we speak of this”, Thranduil then suggested.

Side by side, they walked downstairs in silence, Legolas thinking of the many possibilities this story could turn into, Thranduil recalling the events of that night. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Thranduil paused, out of breath. Legolas gave him a worried look, but just a small shake of his head told his son he was fine.

Only when they sat down for a few minutes and Thranduil had taken his time to regain his breath – Legolas had brought them tea in the meantime – Thranduil chose to speak of it. He’d thought long about how to bring it up, the easiest way for both him and his son, but the more he thought of it, the more he realized that there was no easy way to say it. “I saw him get murdered.”

The silence that followed was painful. Thranduil stared into the distance, unable to stop the memories from returning to him like a tidal wave crashing onto the shoreline. Legolas however could not begin to understand what he was feeling. There was a mixture of emotions whirling through him like a hurricane. Anger towards those who’d taken away his grandfather, pity for his father’s pain, fear that something like that might happen to him too. He could not bear all the thoughts that were drowning him.

Yet in that moment of confusion, Thranduil shot up so abruptly his chair fell to the ground with a clattering sound. He was trembling as he stood. “I’m sorry”, he whispered in hushed breaths. “I thought I could finally speak of this.” He swallowed, and it looked as if it was painful for him. “I was wrong”, Thranduil concluded. “Forgive me, I need some time.”

With that, he turned around, his thin hair fluttering after him, leaving Legolas behind, baffled and unable to understand even the slightest of the things that were raging through his mind. He reached out and grabbed his phone. There was nobody he could speak to. He brought the phone to his ear. His breath was irregular and unstable. The steady beeping signalled the line was engaged.

“Come on”, Legolas whispered into the horn. “Come on, pick up.” He quickly wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, not realizing that the soft tickle he’d felt had been the trail of a tear crawling down towards his jawline. “Please, pick up”, he muttered, shutting his eyes tightly.

The beeping stopped and a soft click sounded. Legolas released a gasp in relief. He was not alone in this after all. “Hello, Legolas?” Bard’s worried voice sounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this kiss upon the brow!  
> And, in parting from you now,  
> Thus much let me avow-  
> You are not wrong, who deem  
> That my days have been a dream;  
> Yet if hope has flown away  
> In a night, or in a day,  
> In a vision, or in none,  
> Is it therefore the less gone?  
> All that we see or seem  
> Is but a dream within a dream.
> 
> I stand amid the roar  
> Of a surf-tormented shore,  
> And I hold within my hand  
> Grains of the golden sand-  
> How few! yet how they creep  
> Through my fingers to the deep,  
> While I weep- while I weep!  
> O God! can I not grasp  
> Them with a tighter clasp?  
> O God! can I not save  
> One from the pitiless wave?  
> Is all that we see or seem  
> But a dream within a dream?


	12. Reluctance

He realized his hand was trembling when he pushed the horn back. He walked to the door, not telling his children much more that he’d be ‘out for a bit’. In truth, he could assume it’d take a little longer than just a bit, but he’d ring them up when he had some more certainty. Legolas was waiting for him downstairs, legs pulled up on the couch and hands resting in his lap.

Bard quietly sat down next to Legolas and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. A soft noise escaped Legolas, and a squeeze on the shoulder followed. Bard rose his hand again and gently laid his arms around the young man. Yet it was exactly that which made Legolas break down. The sudden outburst startled Bard, but didn’t exactly surprise him. He tugged Legolas closer to himself and dropped the young man against his side, where he allowed him to cry until it softened the pain, confusion and above all fear he was feeling.

He didn’t know what to say, or how to act, so he did nothing. And though he thought that was not the best approach, Bard soon realized that Legolas had quietly fallen asleep against him. Just like Bain would. He recalled how Bain had locked himself up for days after their mother had left them, but eventually he’d approached Bard, and without words the two had found a way to communicate. Just like he had now with Legolas.

In those few weeks, it was almost as if he’d gotten another son. He looked down at the blond hair that wasn’t far removed from his nose. Each time he breathed out, the strands fluttered a little. Bard closed his eyes. He felt strangely comfortable in Thranduil’s house nowadays, almost as if it were his own home.

“I thought I’d heard something.” Hearing the sudden words ring so softly behind him had Bard nearly jump in his place. Thranduil had appeared behind them, and walked now amongst the couches to find his own usual spot. His eyes briefly slid over the view of Legolas resting against Bard, and the latter became eerily conscious of the way it might look to the boy’s father.

“Eh…” Bard started, now uncomfortably shifting in his spot. “I’m sorry for intruding like that”, he started trying to explain himself, but he noticed Thranduil’s lips suddenly curling up into what appeared to be a smile. Almost as if he was mocking Bard, or laughing at his stupidity.

“He rang you up”, Thranduil stated. “And let you in. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to enter the house.” He stood up again and reached out his hand towards Bard. Bard glanced at him in confusion, but then realized that Thranduil was offering him something. He opened his hand and felt something fall in his hand. It was small, and rather heavy for its size. It didn’t take him long to realize Thranduil had given him a spare key.

“What’s... Why’re you giving me this?” Bard wanted to know. The gesture wasn’t something he’d expected after their latest falling out. It had seemed Bard wasn’t that welcome there, but now he’d been given a key, which signalled the exact opposite.

A soft shrug told him Thranduil couldn’t give him an exact answer to that question either. “I can’t… I’ve been thinking”, he started trying to explain himself, but word after word, he realized it was more difficult for him to really formulate what he was thinking. “I came to the conclusion it wouldn’t hurt to give you some more free reign over the house”, Thranduil pointed out the result of his thinking. “And walking in here like this only verified it.” His gaze had turned towards Legolas, and a soft sigh escaped his lips. “When I’m gone…”

“If”, Bard interrupted him bluntly. “It’s not a certainty, so don’t speak of it like it is.” He’d sounded sharper than he’d intended to, which appeared to have shocked Thranduil slightly, but he quickly snapped out of it. A smile appeared on his lips.

“If I come to die”, he gracefully accepted Bard’s correction “He will need someone he can rely upon. And he trusts you now.” It surprised even Thranduil how much Legolas had come to like Bard, especially since he’d adamantly refused to give him a chance at first. And now Bard was the support his father could not be. It was endearing, truly. Thranduil got up and walked over to the couch. He sat down on the small bit of space still left in front of Legolas, and ran his fingers over his son’s hair.

Bard felt how their knees were touching, and a short glance down alerted him their thighs were almost doing the same. The discomfort of Thranduil’s arrival had briefly gone, but now returned as if to slap him in the face and laugh at him. Thranduil himself did not seem to notice, and if he did, it did not bother him in the slightest. Bard wondered how he could always keep himself so dignified, even in days like these.

“You won’t”, Bard finally broke the silence. Thranduil blinked a few times and looked up at the man in front of him. It appeared he only then realized how close they were to one another. A flighty smile danced on his lips all of a sudden, but his eyes spoke of puzzlement. “Die”, Bard clarified. “I won’t… You won’t die.”

He’d expected to see some more reaction in Thranduil’s expression after having said that, but he received little change. Thranduil’s eyes slid to the coffee table for a moment, and Bard wanted to say something more, though he could not tell what it was, and no matter how much he’d later try to remember, all he would recall was the disarray in his heart the moment Thranduil’s dry lips landed on his own.

Their lips parted a little again. It had been little more than just a peck, and their gazes crossed. Thranduil’s was slightly flustered, ashamed almost. He didn’t know if it was that which pulled him across the line, but he knew something had. Bard’s hand shot up, his fingers sliding through the long, blond locks. He tugged Thranduil a little closer, their lips once more pressing together.

Thranduil did not know how to react at first. His hands were uncomfortably clenching together in his lap. But then their lips parted softly, and what was a little kiss grew into a confession for the attraction they’d both felt towards one another, and the comfort they’d been providing each other.

 

* * *

 

Yet suddenly he backed off, turning his gaze away from Bard. “I’m sorry”, he then apologized. “That was irresponsible of me.” He wiped his hand across his lips, as if to erase the traces of what they’d just done. But the tingling feeling on his skin wasn’t wiped off that easily, and neither was the taste of their kiss. It was as if the realization of what they’d been doing was only now seeping into his mind.

“It’s alright”, Bard answered. He had no idea how to respond to the sudden outburst, and he couldn’t move much. Waking up Legolas would make things far too awkward now. “I had a feeling you might… feel the same way”, he admitted, and he sounded glad. But that did not soothe Thranduil.

“I don’t”, Thranduil snapped back at Bard. “I don’t care for you.” He let out a heavy sigh that sounded nearly agonized, and then turned around to leave the room as quickly as he could without having to run for the door.

“Thranduil!” Bard called out for the other, as loud as he could without being actually loud, but as expected the man did not bother to turn around. “Fucks’ sake”, Bard muttered as he carefully tried to put Legolas down on the couch without waking him up. His attempts were good, but not good enough, for Legolas groaned softly and opened his eyes, only to look around bewildered. “I’ve… gotta use the bathroom”, Bard apologized quickly. He didn’t want to alarm Legolas.

Taking two steps at once, he rushed upstairs to follow Thranduil. He’d figured the man was already in his room by now, and he only halted at the closed door, doubtful for a second if he should just barge in and demand an explanation, or perhaps he should just leave him be. Or maybe he could knock and ask for his permission, rather than invade his privacy unannounced.

His risen hand hovered in front of the wooden door as the thoughts were crossing his mind. The main question was ‘why’. Why kiss him first and then drop him like a dirty brick from the top of Mount Everest into the Mariana Trench? He didn’t even know if he wanted to know. His hand dropped, and instead he softly pressed his forehead against the door. “Thranduil?” he called out.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil leant his back against the door. He was out of breath, so much so that even if he’d wished to reply, he couldn’t. But despite he didn’t wish to respond, he found himself uttering the other man’s name so softly. Then a silence followed, one that was at the same time way too long and yet too short. He licked his lips, readying himself to say something, but he couldn’t really figure out what.

But Bard made it easy for him by breaking the silence himself. “Why’re you running away?” he asked. A stupid question, really.

“Why do you think?” Thranduil asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the door. He could only imagine what Bard’s face would look like on the other side of the door. “I don’t want you to stick around and see me die.” He could only remember all too well what it was like for him to see his wife grow sick and fade away. For him, there had been no turning his back on her. They’d been married and had loved each other since so long.

But Bard could still walk out of it, and Thranduil prayed he would. And yet… He found himself clenching to his shirt at the silence. He wanted to hear Bard’s response, the soothing calm that his voice always brought to him. “I told you, you won’t die.” Thranduil jerked his head up at hearing those words. What would Bard know of it? “You’ve got too much to live for”, Bard continued. “You’d not leave Legolas behind.”

“It’s not something you can choose”, Thranduil softly replied. “My sheer willpower won’t keep me alive. I’m not that naïve, Bard. And I know that if I came to die, you’d be there for Legolas still. He’s come to see you as a second father and-…” And so had Thranduil. He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the door. “I need some time to think.”

Bard nodded, knowing that Thranduil could not see him do it. He understood, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to maintain distance and stay close at the same time. “I understand, Thranduil”, he promised him. “But don’t let your reluctance stand in the way of your happiness. Even if it were the final few days of your life, I’d rather you spent them in joy than in pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out through the fields and the woods  
> And over the walls I have wended;  
> I have climbed the hills of view  
> And looked at the world, and descended;  
> I have come by the highway home,  
> And lo, it is ended.
> 
> The leaves are all dead on the ground,  
> Save those that the oak is keeping  
> To ravel them one by one  
> And let them go scraping and creeping  
> Out over the crusted snow,  
> When others are sleeping.
> 
> And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,  
> No longer blown hither and thither;  
> The last lone aster is gone;  
> The flowers of the witch hazel wither;  
> The heart is still aching to seek,  
> But the feet question “Whither?”
> 
> Ah, when to the heart of man  
> Was it ever less than a treason  
> To go with the drift of things,  
> To yield with a grace to reason,  
> And bow and accept the end  
> Of a love or a season?


	13. The Road Not Taken

He still wasn’t too sure what to make of those words, not even after these past few days he’d had the chance to think on them. The more he thought about it, the more difficult it was for him to push away the help he was offered. He wanted to tell Bard he should go fuck off, make it easier for both of them. But like all human beings, he too was too selfish.

Thranduil had managed to keep the contact more professional lately, but every time he looked at Bard, it was as if the fire was rekindled in his heart. It was more difficult than ever to hide the smiles that wanted to break through on his face, and to turn him his back. To slap away that helpful hand that reached out for him, to take the time he was being given.

And yet, the harsher he was to Bard, the more he came to care for him, for Bard never seemed to hold it against him. He was patient and understanding, and though Thranduil never lowered himself to being rude, he knew Bard understood what he was doing. He fooled neither of them.

Slowly he hid his face in his hands, brushing his hair back, but when he looked at his hands, he realized he was holding a thick lock of his own long hair. A soft cuss escaped his lips. He felt so exhausted most of the time. Every time he reached the bottom of the staircase, he was out of breath. In time, he found himself to rely on Bard more and more, even though they both pretended as if that wasn’t the case.

It had come so far that each evening, Bard picked up his children from school and brought them to Amon Lanc for dinner. They often stayed over during the weekends, much to Legolas’ joy. When the weather was good, he and Bain practiced their shooting, listening to Bard’s instructions now more than they did to Thranduil’s. The latter observed instead, lounging on a garden chair with a cup of tea that Bard prepared for him – fruity and fresh, the way he loved it.

But it made him frustrated, how much he relied on Bard’s presence, and how comfortable he was becoming with it. And yet he couldn’t turn him away. Not for Legolas’ sake. He took a deep breath and got up from the bed. It was cold, but then again, he was always cold lately. Slowly, Thranduil made his way to the bin, in which he threw the lock of hair. Then he put on his long chamber robe, to keep him warm. Passing by the mirror, he noticed how much he was balding. It was a sore sight, humiliating even. Perhaps it would be better to just get it all off.

The door opened and Legolas popped his head inside. “Ada, Bard just arrived”, he stated, sounding quite cheerfully. Thranduil gave him a little smile and a nod, indicating that he’d be coming down soon. He looked at his mirage again, softly tapping the surface of the mirror. It was as cold as his own skin, he thought to himself.

And then he took a decision that he’d never have thought would even cross his mind. It felt strange, both awful and amazing when he thought of it. But as he descended the staircase and saw Bard at the bottom, talking to Legolas, it solidified him in his resolve. “Bard”, he greeted him, which had the brunet look up. The way his face lit up as he saw Thranduil, even in that pitiful state, was endearing. “Since you spend most of your time here lately, would you like to officially move in?”

The question baffled both Bard and Legolas, but the later realized this was not his conversation to have. His eyes briefly crossed his father’s, and without words he understood. He took off, in search of Bain, Sigrid and Tilda. “I… eh”, Bard started. He wasn’t sure what the reasoning behind the invitation was. Did Thranduil want him around for himself, or for Legolas? Was it a mere precaution for when he’d die?

But he didn’t need to think long on it. “Yes”, he stated, turning to face Thranduil fully now, his shoulders and back straight, his head lifted to look up at the frail man. He reached his hand out and took Thranduil’s, helping him downstairs for the last few steps. And even though they both knew Thranduil didn’t need the help, he gracefully accepted it.

“The house is big enough to avoid me if you grow tired of this pitiful sight”, Thranduil remarked with a playful smile.

“You’re not a pitiful sight”, Bard objected. “And I’m not saying that you look more beautiful now than you ever have, because that’d be a lie. You’re more handsome when there’s colour on your cheeks and life in your eyes, but I have never seen someone carry himself through sickness as you do. Not once have I seen you waver.”

“Flatterer.” It was the only word that escaped Thranduil’s lips, but Bard saw how he’d drawn yet another smile on Thranduil’s lips. And it was those smiles that he lived for nowadays. Thranduil let his hand slip away from Bard’s, but remained in his place for a few moments longer, catching his breath again. “Why did you accept?” he finally asked.

A strange question, and Bard wondered why he’d been asked it. “Why’d you proposed it if you didn’t want me to?” he countered, but as Thranduil merely shrugged, he let out a soft sigh. “Why?” he repeated the question. “Well, it’s financially more profitable for both of us”, he started. It was only common sense; they’d get the money from selling Bard’s house, didn’t need to pay the taxes for two houses separately anymore and insurance costs would be reduced.

“Aside from that”, Bard continued. “I spend a lot of my time here anyway. My children love it here, it has a lot of merits living in such a big house. And the space you have is now used rather than wasting away through time.” The comment had Thranduil chuckle softly. Bard had a point. There was no use in having a house this size and not using most of it.

“Besides”, Bard still had more reasons to come “it’s also easier for me to be around all the time, so that if you need me, I won’t be away.” Thranduil wanted to interrupt him there, but Bard wouldn’t let him. “I want to be there for you”, he stated his desire. “I want to care for you. Don’t just put it all on Legolas’ shoulders. I know you’re a prideful man, but I’ve chosen to ignore that.” He reached out and grabbed onto Thranduil’s hand again, giving it a soft squeeze. “I know what you are to me.”

Thranduil’s hand twitched in the grasp. He’d wished to pull it away, but instead, he spread his fingers and slipped them in between Bard’s, leaning closer to press their noses together softly. “I know what I am to you”, he softly said. “It’s why I don’t want you around. But I’m selfish, so I’m keeping you just close enough so that you won’t leave, but far enough so I can feel good about myself not to let you suffer.”

“At least you recognize it”, Bard joked. He stepped forward and swept Thranduil off his feet. “No time to let you lounge here”, he teased him as he carried him to the dinner table. “The food will be growing cold if you keep standing in the hallway.” Thranduil was letting out some protests, but as soon as they’d entered the room, he saw four pairs of eyes stare at them.

“Put me down, Bard”, Thranduil moped, his cheeks having slightly turned pink.

“I will. In a moment. On a chair.” Bard’s answer didn’t exactly please Thranduil, but he knew he couldn’t fight off the brunet on this one. Once he’d been put on his chair, he avoided all eye contact with everyone and anyone, especially the children, but Bard just the same. He hated being this flustered over something like that, but he also didn’t quite appreciate being embarrassed by Bard in front of his own son, and Bard’s children.

“Bard, you’re an ass”, he declared as the first thing he said at the dinner table. Pretty much everyone was sniggering, snorting, giggling or chuckling, except Thranduil, who was just frowning at Bard. “As are all of you”, Thranduil complained, which only made the others laugh at him more. It was useless protesting, so he crossed his arms over his chest instead.

“Alright, before we start eating”, Bard started once the laughter had died down a little bit more. “Thranduil and I have decided something…” He turned to look at Thranduil, inviting him to join the explanation. Legolas seemed to know right away what it was about, judging from the way he straightened his back. He looked a lot like his father like this.

“I asked Bard if he wished for all of you to move in with us”, Thranduil shortly summarized the conversation. “And he agreed.” He’d expected a reaction, but not the three faces lighting up as they did. Bain’s eyes shot at Legolas, the smile on his face so genuine. Legolas returned that smile with a big grin. He was becoming somewhat more officially the ‘big brother’ of those other three that he’d come to like so much.

“It seems they like it”, Bard muttered under his breath as he looked at Thranduil.

“You don’t say.” Thranduil just rose his eyebrows a little as he saw them all happily talking to one another. He was captivated by a warm feeling. My family, he thought, and it made a huge smile appear on his lips. He reached out, and Bard felt the cold fingers wrap over his hand, softly squeezing it. Bard looked to his side, to the blond man that was looking at the children being enthused.

“Yep”, Bard softly whispered. “That’s our family.”

Thranduil abruptly turned to look at Bard, his pale blue eyes locking together with the deep brown ones. He liked how those words rung in his ear, and without producing a single sound, he repeated them. “Our family.” And as soon as he’d tasted the words on his lips, he was glad that he had made these choices, the choice to walk this road and not the other one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
> And sorry I could not travel both  
> And be one traveler, long I stood  
> And looked down one as far as I could  
> To where it bent in the undergrowth;  
> Then took the other, as just as fair,  
> And having perhaps the better claim,  
> Because it was grassy and wanted wear;  
> Though as for that the passing there  
> Had worn them really about the same,  
> And both that morning equally lay  
> In leaves no step had trodden black.  
> Oh, I kept the first for another day!  
> Yet knowing how way leads on to way,  
> I doubted if I should ever come back.  
> I shall be telling this with a sigh  
> Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
> Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—  
> I took the one less traveled by,  
> And that has made all the difference.


	14. Sudden Light

With the usual groaning and moaning that each morning brought with, Bard was stumbling out of the bed. It was harder than he’d anticipated, adjusting to a new house that was at least fifty times as large as his previous one. Luckily, the largest part of the estate remained unused, and Bard had no business going there in the first place – which didn’t necessarily mean that when he was free, he couldn’t go exploring.

But most of the time, that ended in him getting lost, ringing Thranduil from his mobile and describing the paintings on the wall so Thranduil could localize him. It had surprised Bard how well Thranduil knew all these paintings in his halls, and one day, he’d asked Thranduil how he could keep them apart.

“Easy”, Thranduil had said. “They all show something different.” And while he hadn’t been wrong, Bard still couldn’t wrap his mind around that mystery. It was only when Thranduil mentioned that he’d seen them all come into the house when he was still young, that Bard realized the difference was years of practice and adjusting, whereas his brain was bombarded with the hundreds of impulses at the same time.

Nevertheless, exploration had been worth it, for Bard discovered that the house had a library, complete with old stuffy tomes that looked like they hadn’t been opened since a few centuries. While Thranduil admitted that was the case for some books, he’d also emphasized that most of the collection were only later additions, more precisely his father’s.

It was the library that Bard had set out to explore today. He’d invited Thranduil to join him in his ‘quest’ of finding great literature, an offer the latter had accepted, even though he claimed to know most of the books in the library. Little did he know that ‘exploration’ would also mean ‘adding Bard’s collection to the library’. No way in hell Bard would leave his own precious books at home.

Yet despite the fun day he’d planned, Bard still couldn’t get himself out of the bed in time, and only when the doors were opened with a loud ‘thud’ and Thranduil walked into the room, he realized that he had overslept.

“Bard, it’s ten in the morning, you suggested getting up at eight”, Thranduil complained as he pulled open the heavy curtains.

“Means you could sleep longer too”, Bard whined, pulling the duvet over his head and hiding his face from the sunlight as if it would burn him like it would a vampire.

The likeness had not escaped Thranduil, it appeared, for the man came closer and harshly prodded where Bard’s stomach was supposed to be. “Come on, Dracula”, Thranduil tried to get him to finally get up. “If you’re scared of this much light, the library will never be for you. It’s the room with the most light in the house, I dare bet.”

Bard’s face appeared again, his hair frizzy and his eyes squinted. “You are a cruel man, Thranduil”, he said in a very as-a-matter-of-fact tone. But apparently it had been enough, the threat not to be able to see the library, for Bard sat up, sliding down the sheets and slipping out of bed. His bare feet were looking for the slippers that he always left next to the bed, but couldn’t find them. It looked as if he was doing a little dance.

“You just kicked one under the bed”, Thranduil clarified. “I’ll wait downstairs”, he continued then “so you can finish getting washed and dressed.” He walked out of the room again, Bard’s still squinted eyes prying into his back.

Some days were better than others, Bard thought, and today was a good day. Thranduil appeared more energized than he’d been in a long time, but that didn’t mean he looked good. His condition seemed to be stabilizing, but Bard never really knew for sure. Despite living there for a few weeks by now, Thranduil never let him in on the progress of his treatment.

“So you don’t worry”, Thranduil always told Bard, but that never worked on Bard. If the news would worry him, it meant bad news, because if it was good news, it wouldn’t worry him at all. But even though Bard countered Thranduil’s logic like that, he still did not receive an answer that gave him more closure.

 

* * *

 

When Bard made his way downstairs, he felt already much more awake and refreshed. The sun was out, and its rays showed the small specks of dust dancing in the light. He’d always loved the sight of that, for it reminded him of the universe, yet it was made of light rather than darkness.

“Good morning, sunshine”, Thranduil greeted him. There was a slightly amused tone in his voice, as if seeing Bard made him cheerier somehow, but also mocking Bard’s morning hair and tiny, squinted eyes that tried to block out all the unwanted light.

“Not yet”, Bard protested. “Haven’t had my fuel yet. Where’s the coffee?”

It seemed Thranduil knew him well, for as Bard asked, he’d already gotten up to pour him a cup. “Milk, no sugar”, he said as he handed the cup to the other. Bard reached out to take it from him and made sure his fingers briefly brushed over Thranduil’s hand. The expected eye contact didn’t come, however.

“Thanks”, Bard murmured, bringing the cup to his lips. Waking up without coffee was a no-go, and Thranduil knew that much. He always made fresh coffee in the mornings, and if he was feeling up for it, he grinded the beans himself too. Those were the good days, at least. Some days, Bard had to stagger out of the bed all by himself and still half-blind and drunk with sleep he’d scoop the coffee powder in the machine, often half of it next to the machine too.

For a few minutes they stood side by side in silence. With every sip he took, Bard appreciated the sunlight more and readying himself for the day. Thranduil was leaning against the counter and looking outside. The faint smile he wore on his lips was not supported by his eyes.

“What’s bothering you?” Bard wanted to know, observing every trace on Thranduil’s skin, every line carved into his face by the worry that gnawed at him. His words seemed to wake him up somehow, and the eyes turned to him, a certain liveliness coming into them as Thranduil fixed his gaze on Bard’s face. But the sorrow wasn’t gone.

“It’s not working”, he finally said after the harrowing silence that lasted a minute too long. He didn’t have to specify; Bard knew. He clenched tighter onto the cup of coffee, unable to tell if the bitter taste in his mouth was of his coffee or of the news he’d heard.

“It will”, he declared with a firm tone. It had to.

“It hasn’t and it won’t”, Thranduil now replied, the sudden frown on his face indicating that Bard’s denial wasn’t met well. It felt like a strange slap to the face, and Bard didn’t know how to reply. The mood between them now ruined, he placed the cup on the counter again, having lost all will to taste even the slightest sip of coffee right now.

He’d given up. Thranduil had given up on fighting, but Bard wasn’t ready to do so. He couldn’t and wouldn’t believe that there was nothing to be done anymore. A few seconds of silence and a few deep breaths later, he felt a lot calmer already.

“Let’s go to the library”, Bard proposed to continue their plans for the day rather than wallow and despair. Thranduil gave him a short nod, glad that they didn’t need to have this conversation any longer as it was taking a quick turn into something that neither of them wanted: a fight that would ruin their day.

 

* * *

 

Bard couldn’t help but look up every five minutes. The library’s small seating corner was tactically placed near the window and yet sheltered by the tall massive oaken bookshelves. You’d need one of those rolling ladders to reach the top shelves.

Reading together with someone had never been this distracting. Honestly, once a book absorbed Bard’s attention, there was little that could disrupt him and hours would have passed before he realized just how long he’d been there. But with Thranduil next to him, it was quite the opposite. Thranduil was the one who didn’t budge, his long fingers resting on the pages to hold them back. He moved his hand only every once in a while, so he could read the words he otherwise hid.

Just the slightest tilt of Thranduil’s head alerted Bard whenever he was changing pages. His eyes were the most active part of his body right now, flashing over the pages so fast. Another tilt of his head, and a lock of hair escaped from behind Thranduil’s ear. At first he paid no attention to it, but then, slowly as if hesitant, he lifted his hand towards it. A moment long he froze, too captivated by what he was reading to continue moving.

Bard chuckled. As much as he was absorbed by books, and he’d seen people love books, watching Thranduil read was a whole story in itself. Just by looking at his expressions, his silent movements and the slightest hints of a frown or a smile told a whole other tale. Bard leant closer and brushed Thranduil’s hair behind his ear.

His trance broken, Thranduil looked up, hand still hovering in mid-air. His eyes met Bard’s, and he seemed rather confused for just the slightest second, before his lips curled into a slight smile. He quietly closed the book he’d been reading.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were tired of reading”, Thranduil apologized. “If you want to leave…” he continued. But Bard abruptly interrupted him. His hand still on Thranduil’s cheek, holding those soft locks of blond hair, he closed the distance between the two of them, and pressed his lips softly onto Thranduil’s. There was just enough hesitation for Thranduil to back away if he wanted to. Yet he didn’t.

Their kiss lasted long, but it did not feel like it to either of them. When Bard finally backed away a little again, he saw the smile dancing on Thranduil’s lips, and though they were both trying to remain serious, neither managed to repress the sudden sniggering and laughter that welled up.

“Where’d that come from?” Thranduil murmured between their giggling, a soft blush colouring his cheeks just a slight shade of pink darker.

Bard threw his head back, and with an overly dramatic voice replied: “From the heart!” Another wave of giggling ensued, while the two were doing their best to keep it rather quietly – more out of habit from being in libraries than because they feared their children would hear.

“Wanna try again?” Bard asked when they’d finally calmed down. Yet it was that question that had Thranduil’s smile disappear.

“Depends”, he stated, lowering his voice a little. “Why did you do it?”

Bard didn’t really know where that question came from. Wasn’t it pretty obvious, or did Thranduil really think he would just go around kissing people for the fun of it? “Because I… like you?” he carefully suggested, the question having made him cautious about what answer he was supposed to give. “You’re a beautiful man and I wouldn’t …”

But Thranduil didn’t let him finish. He’d turned his gaze away from Bard, and with a soft sigh said: “Then I can’t. I couldn’t put you in that position, knowing I won’t live long to enjoy your caring for me.”

Bard wanted to get up and walk out, but didn’t. “If it wasn’t there, would your answer be the same?” he questioned, trying to control the tone of his voice but failing to hide everything. “Because it doesn’t sound like it would.”

Thranduil took a deep breath, folding his hands in his lap. “No, it wouldn’t be”, he admitted.

“Then let it be my choice”, Bard snapped before Thranduil could say anything else. “Every minute I can be with you is worth it”, he tried to elaborate. “It’s too late now. I care about you, you care about me. It’s… impossible for me to go on knowing this and not…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but settled his brief outburst of emotions with: “I’m going to be left behind, and I want to pursue this. Don’t use me as an excuse to shield yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been here before,  
> But when or how I cannot tell:  
> I know the grass beyond the door,  
> The sweet keen smell,  
> The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
> 
> You have been mine before, -  
> How long ago I may not know:  
> But just when at that swallow's soar  
> Your neck turned so,  
> Some veil did fall, - I knew it all of yore.
> 
> Has this been thus before?  
> And shall not thus time's eddying flight  
> Still with our lives our love restore  
> In death's despite,  
> And day and night yield one delight once more?


	15. Your Laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! I'm really grateful for everyone who stuck with the story from the beginning to the end. I appreciate the kind words and feedback I received from you guys!

Bard pushed the door open with his foot, carefully as not to disturb Thranduil too much. He was carrying a platter with hot tea, just the way Thranduil liked it. He quickly noticed him sitting on the comfortable chair, the soft light falling onto his pale skin.

Bard carefully placed the platter on the low coffee table, making as little noise as possible, but he couldn’t avoid the cutlery softly clattering. A quick glance at Thranduil affirmed he hadn’t moved, still quietly asleep with the thick duvet over him. He was always freezing lately, too much of his energy invested in fighting his illness.

Quietly, Bard joined him on another couch, watching the man sleep. Most of his hair was gone, and what little of those silvery blond locks were left, was little more than a few pathetic strands. His skin was an unhealthy pale colour, white like snow but as fragile as a thin layer of ice. He didn’t look good, or beautiful, like when they’d first met. But he was still Thranduil.

The slightest movement of Thranduil’s hand alerted Bard that he was waking up again. “Good morning, sleepy face”, Bard greeted his now-lover. It had been a short while – a mere two weeks – since they’d kissed in the library, but it felt as if it had been only minutes.

“Morning”, Thranduil muttered. His voice lacked any sort of energy, as did he. “Do I smell tea?” he asked after a few moments of silence during which he seemed to be waking up. His eyes opened a little further, and he observed Bard’s face. A faint smile curled around his lips as Bard handed him a cup of the damping hot tea.

“Thank you”, Thranduil said, hooking his fingers clumsily around the ear of the cup and bringing it to his lips for a sip. Bard could see how he was trembling, but dared not help. Despite being weak, Thranduil was a proud man, and unless he asked for it, he did not want help. Not that Bard doubted Thranduil was too vain to ask for assistance when it was necessary. He did, after all, often rely on Bard when he wanted to go downstairs, though the last time he did that had been eight days ago by now. He spent most days in his room, seeing as even the distance from his bed to the couch was one that left him out of breath.

They sat together in silence for a little while, Thranduil quietly drinking his tea and Bard observing him. “Could you put this back?” Thranduil asked, the first thing to break the silence. He reached the empty cup towards Bard, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Just when Bard wanted to take a hold of it, it slipped from Thranduil’s fingers and tumbled down. Luckily Bard’s reflexes were still sharp, for he managed to catch the cup before it shattered on the floor.

“Sorry”, Thranduil apologized for the inconvenience. “I’m getting clumsier by the second.” They shared a brief laugh about his remark while Bard placed the cup back on the platter.

“No idea what you’re talking about, you’re the epitome of grace”, Bard teased him softly, before wrapping an arm around Thranduil’s shoulders to press a kiss on his temple. “I love you regardless”, he promised Thranduil, carefully caressing his fingers through what little of those beautiful blond locks Thranduil still had.

“And I you”, Thranduil quietly promised, softly pressing his hand against Bard’s chest. He looked up at him, and tenderly pressed their lips together for a kiss. When he broke their touch, he seemed a little different somehow. “Bard, could you do me a favour and send Legolas upstairs?” The request wasn’t all too strange, but there was something unsettling about the way he asked.

“Sure, I’ll go get him right away”, Bard promised as he got up. He pressed another quick kiss on Thranduil’s forehead, and while he walked to the door he heard a little ‘thank you’ muttered behind him. It drew a little smile on his face, and he threw a glance over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him.

“Legolas”, Bard called out as soon as he had gotten downstairs. The young man was seated at the dinner table, together with Bard’s own three sprouts. He looked up when he heard his name, easily spotting Bard standing in the door. “Got a minute?” Bard asked, gesturing Legolas over with a little nod of his head.

Legolas got up and walked over. “What’s the matter, dad?” he asked. “Was trying to explain maths to Bain.” He dug his hands in his pockets, looking up at Bard with a questioning gaze, before he seemed to realize just what he’d said – probably thanks to Bard’s sudden baffled expression. “Oh. Eh, sorry”, he quickly apologized.

“No, no, it’s fine”, Bard quickly rushed to say. “I’m flattered, actually. Ehm, I eh… Oh yeah, your eh… Thranduil asked if you could spare a moment to…” To what? He had no idea, actually, and Legolas calling him ‘dad’ hadn’t really done wonders on his brain. He felt like his brain pulled a little ‘error’ message on him, but Legolas didn’t really seem to worry much about that. Instead he gave Bard a short nod and rushed upstairs – also to avoid having to face Bard after calling him dad.

 

* * *

 

It was hours later when Legolas finally came downstairs again, looking weary and none too cheerful. Before Bard could ask what was wrong, Legolas made a gesture at the staircase. “He asked if you could…” he murmured, his voice trembling just a little bit. He was keeping strong, that much was clear, and worry struck Bard. There wasn’t much that could unsettle Legolas, but now something had.

Bard felt as if his blood had suddenly decided to rush through his veins twice as fast as it normally would, and the energy had him sprinting upstairs, taking three steps at once before he arrived at Thranduil’s bedroom, almost entirely out of breath but still in a hurry. When he slammed open the door, his eyes right away slid to where he’d left Thranduil before.

And he still was there. Looking at him, startled by Bard. “Enthusiastic”, Thranduil remarked, a soft smile dancing on his lips. He was holding onto a crumpled piece of paper, and slowly gestured Bard to sit next to him. “I’ve written something for you”, he stated, explaining the sheet he was holding. “Well. Legolas wrote it down for me.”

Bard took place next to Thranduil, still slightly worried, but at least a little relieved to see that his lover was fine, or at least not any less fine than he’d been when Bard left him before. Thranduil folded open the piece of paper, his hands trembling still. No wonder he’d asked Legolas to write for him; at this rate he wouldn’t be able to read his own handwriting.

“Can I read it for you?” Thranduil asked, his voice quivering slightly. It sent a chill up Bard’s spine. It was unnatural, he thought, the way Thranduil struggled merely to talk.

“Of course”, Bard replied in a hushed whisper, digging his nose into Thranduil’s neck as he wrapped his arms around him. He felt him shiver a little, the cold clinging to him as if it were vying for Thranduil’s love just as well as Bard was. Thranduil made himself as comfortable as he could, leaning against Bard as he looked at the words scrambled onto the paper.

Softly, Thranduil read the poem aloud. He did his best to speak loud and clear, but still his voice sounded tender and careful, a hushed whisper in Bard’s ear.

 

_“No heart is as bright_

_As the star-spangled night_

_No eyes without gleam_

_Inside a blissful dream_

_No victory without might_

_And no fight without plight_

_Tonight the stars are out_

_The moonlit nightskies bright_

_A heavenly roar, the whispers of wind_

_Storm comes and goes soon after_

_The bells toll and remind me_

_That I live and live now_

_My hand in yours_

_Your arm 'round me_

_And your laughter_

_On my lips”_

 

When Thranduil crumpled the piece of paper between his thin fingers, Bard knew he’d finished the poem. “It’s… gorgeous”, he softly muttered into Thranduil’s neck. His hand wrapped around Thranduil’s, and he closed his eyes.

“As… are you”, Bard could hear Thranduil tell him. A little laugh escaped Bard’s throat. Whatever shape Thranduil was in, he never failed to make him smile. “Bard?” Thranduil sounded all of a sudden.

“Yeah?” Bard asked, looking down at Thranduil’s face.

“I love your laughter.” The words came with a certain ease, despite the hardship that came with talking. Thranduil had his eyes closed, the faintest smile on his lips as he relaxed his head against Bard’s shoulder.

“And I love you”, Bard returned. He brushed his fingertips tenderly over Thranduil’s cheek. With his eyes closed like that, he looked like he was nodding off again. His hand slipped from Bard’s chest, falling back into his lap. Apparently, he’d fallen asleep already. Quite fast, Bard thought to himself. He’d never known Thranduil to be someone who could sleep this easily.

“Thranduil?” Bard softly asked, nudging him gently. But no answer came.


End file.
